


The Dead Man in the Lab

by sameuspegasus



Category: Bones (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Deviates from canon after S5 SPN, Gen, Post Swan Song, Therapy, can be read as Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 27,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameuspegasus/pseuds/sameuspegasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a dead man in Booth's interrogation room, and he's having an argument with an angel of the Lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no association with Supernatural or Bones. Not for profit.
> 
> A/N: This was written after S5 of Supernatural using pure speculation. It can be read either as Dean/Cas or as people misinterpreting the relationship between Dean and Cas. It has already been up on ff.net for a couple of years, but I'm slightly reworking it (nothing major), hopefully improving the writing and ironing out the plot a little.

* * *

 

 

 

 

It was just an ordinary day, an ordinary case. Some unidentified human remains had been found in a park in the suburbs, dug up by a dog on an early morning run with its owner.

At 6:13am, Booth was woken up by the phone call. He collected Bones from her apartment, and they drove out to the site.

Bones had been up all night writing. Her publisher wanted religious symbolism and Christian history, or as Bones put it, 'lies and misconceptions' in the new book. Readers were turning away from thrillers with political commentary and valuable anthropological information and wanted something that touched on wider concerns. Apparently the bleeding skies and multitude of strange deaths of a few months ago had put the fear of God into the consumers. Bones objected to this request strongly and vocally for most of the trip out to the crime scene.

She was still talking about it as they ducked under the yellow tape.

"They want me to put _angels_ in it, Booth! _Angels_! Something for which there is no definitive proof at all!"

Booth was about to snap back that the point of religion was that you didn't need proof because you had _faith_ , but the officers at the scene came to fill him in at that point, so he resolved to finish the discussion later. It was futile to argue religion with Bones anyway. She was immovable.

The body had been dismembered, but all the parts were there except the mandible and a femur. Bones said the victim had been female, between late fifties to sixties, cause of death unknown until she could examine the bones more closely in the lab. Booth thought dismemberment would probably do it, but hoped there was a different cause that didn't involve being chopped up alive.

Back at the lab, the squints did their thing. Hodgins examined dirt and insects, and got very excited when he discovered something that put the time of death at almost exactly one year previous. Angela reconstructed the face, with several possible jaw lines. Cam ran DNA from what little tissue remained on the body, a process that provided frustratingly little information if there were no samples to compare it to. Bones and Daisy X-rayed the bones and visually examined them for cause of death. Booth had watched them do their thing many times before, but he never could quite get over how much they could decipher from what was left after time and bacteria and decay had stripped the identity from a person. It was almost magical. He kept that thought to himself, obviously. He could just imagine his partner's indignation on behalf of science if he referred to what she did as "magic".

Sweets came to get Booth and Bones for their session after lunch. Booth had been sort of hoping he'd forgotten. He had a lot of work to do, trying to discover the identity of the victim, and Sweets was definitely going to notice the tension between them since the conversation that morning. Bones scowled at being interrupted, but eventually followed Sweets into her own office (clever of Sweets, Booth thought - there was no way she would have agreed to step away from her work long enough to go to the FBI building), and sat down next to Booth.

"I'm noticing some tension between the two of you," Sweets said immediately. "Is everything ok?"

"Yes," Booth and Bones said simultaneously.

"If something's bothering you, you need to talk about it. Otherwise it festers, and you won't be able to operate effectively as a partnership," Sweets told them.

"We have a case," said Booth, standing up.

"Wait, Booth. I feel like you're avoiding this conversation. Did you have an argument?"

"Why do you always think we've had an argument? Booth is a very reasonable person. We have discussions, that's all."

"Oh, that was a discussion this morning? Because that's not what it felt like." Booth could feel his frustration rising.

"But _angels?_ I understand that you believe in these things, Booth. I just don't understand why."

"Don't you ever want to believe that there is something out there that will help you if you're in trouble? Something that rewards people for living a good life and looking out for others? Someone to guide you in times of need?"

"I can help myself, Booth. And I have you. I don't need angels."

There was really nothing Booth could say to that.

 

* * *

 

By late afternoon, they had narrowed the possible pool of missing persons down to three, the most likely being Gillian Sparrow, a school teacher who had gone missing from the area one year and two weeks ago. Cause of death had not been established, despite exhaustive examinations by Brennan and Daisy.

Bones was frustrated. Booth could tell by the way her brow furrowed as she ran her gaze up and down the bones, commenting on cuts inflicted after death, and healed injuries, but not finding the cause of Mrs. Sparrow's demise. He dragged her away to get Chinese, eventually. If he hadn't, she would have been there all night.

As it turned out, it was lucky he did.

At 11pm, his phone rang. An intruder had been caught in the lab at the Jeffersonian, apprehended in the processes of desecrating the remains. He had been tackled just as he was about to set them on fire, and had put up a decent fight – not to escape, but to light the bones. Security had stopped him, but the remains had been covered in salt and doused in gasoline.

Luckily, Bones hadn't been there. Booth would have hated charging her for murder.

The intruder had been arrested and fingerprinted. He was waiting to be interrogated. The agent in charge was very insistent that Booth come immediately. The detainee had a history of violence and impressive escapes from custody.

Booth rang Bones. He wasn't sure he should. There was a good chance she would assault the suspect once she heard about the damage to the evidence. He called her anyway, though, because Bones hated being left out of interrogations, and maybe she could use some of her observations of the suspect to judge whether he would be capable of mutilating someone.

They handed him the file before he entered the interrogation room. He pulled out his chair noisily and sat down, Brennan beside him. He slapped the thick file onto the desk in front of him without opening it. It always looked more impressive when you opened it in front of the suspect.

The man who sat on the other side of the desk looked tired. Tired, and sad, and lost. Defeated. He was handsome. Thirtyish. Vaguely familiar.

Booth opened the file. Underneath the mug shot, it said in large black letters: DEAN WINCHESTER. DECEASED. He frowned. That couldn't be right. But the photo matched and so did his fingerprints.

Booth skimmed the file. Multiple counts of murder. Torture. Armed robbery. Weapons charges. Grave desecration. Escaping custody... The list went on. It included two reported deaths, including one in which the body had been left at the scene and positively identified as Dean by fingerprinting and DNA evidence.

"You destroyed my evidence!" Bones began, angrily.

"I had to," said Dean, "But they stopped me and now more kids are going to die." It was quiet and matter of fact, but he did not look at them. That was unusual. Murder threats after arrest were usually a form of intimidation, spoken threateningly, with strong eye contact.

Booth skimmed more of the file, watching out of the corner of his eye to be sure Bones did not assault the suspect. Believed unstable. Narcissistic. Delusions of grandeur and the supernatural. Possible vigilante.

"So, Dean. I see here you've died twice," Booth began, "Care to explain that?"

Dean laughed. "Twice? Dude, I've died more than Buffy. They just keep bringing me back." The smile drifted away from his face without reaching his eyes. He lay his head on the table and closed his eyes.

Maybe they should have woken Sweets up for this.

And then there was someone else in the room. Booth was looking at the file, and Bones was glaring at Dean, who was pretending to sleep.

"Dean." A voice said quietly.

Bones shrieked. Booth let out a manly yell of surprise. A dark haired man in a trench coat stood behind Dean. Booth reached for his gun.

"Dean." The man repeated. Dean bolted upright and spun around, standing up with impressive speed.

"Where the hell have you been, Cas? How could you just leave me here alone?" Dean was yelling, standing very close to the man, who seemed totally unperturbed.

Booth pointed his gun. His hand was shaking. "Sit down!" He commanded. It came out less commanding and more shaky than he intended. Beside him, Bones was frozen in spot.

The words had no effect.

"Hello, Dean." The trench-coated man said it quietly. Booth was not afraid of many people, but this man terrified him. There was a feeling of raw power around him. His coat seemed to billow in a non-existent wind. The lights flickered alarmingly.

"You didn't even say good-bye, Cas. Just went back upstairs and abandoned me for months! I prayed to you and you didn't come! And now you need me. Well, I'm not doing it. I'm through. I've lost everything, and I'm done. So you can just fly away home, now."

"Dean."

Dean seemed on the verge of punching Cas, but the handcuffs prevented it. Booth let out a slight hysterical snort at the thought of calling someone so terrifying Cas.

Bones recovered her voice. "Who are you?"

That was reassuring. It meant he probably wasn't hallucinating, if Bones had seen him too.

The man turned his head slightly. "I'm an angel of the Lord. I must speak with Dean."

Booth crossed himself and began to pray.

He heard the angel speak.

"See, Dean. This is a devout man. This is the correct way to acknowledge the presence of an angel."

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Brennan was inclined to think the whole thing was some elaborate practical joke. At first she had suspected Booth had set it up in a desperate attempt to convince her to subscribe to the unsubstantiated mythology he followed so faithfully, but then she had seen his face when the man had told them he was an angel. His shock and confusion at the man's sudden appearance seemed genuine, and as she watched him pray, Brennan realised that this 'angel' did not fit the mental framework Booth had for angels. Booth had not said anything about angels wearing trench coats and emotionless expressions.

Brennan made a note to check the floor for trapdoors after the interview.

Booth looked up from his prayer, but didn't seem to know what to do. For once, Brennan, too, was lost for words, despite the idiot across from her having destroyed her evidence.

The idiot was still arguing with the 'angel'. A dead man and an angel of the lord, standing toe-to-toe in an interrogation room. Dean was yelling.

"Where the hell have you been, Cas? You're my best friend and you just disappeared without warning, in the middle of a conversation and didn't come back for months. I thought they'd changed their minds and killed you! But no, you just got your reward and abandoned me! Screw you, Cas."

Brennan saw Booth cross himself at that. She supposed that had angels really existed, saying 'screw you' to one would not be entirely appropriate.

Cas was unmoved. Brennan finally understood the metaphor that Booth used sometimes about talking to a brick wall.

"I have been busy, Dean. The world does not revolve around you alone."

Dean smirked derisively. "You seemed pretty sure it did last year."

Brennan considered calling security. The man was obviously insane. She was fairly certain she wouldn't get far if she tried to move, though. Dean Winchester was definitely dangerous, and this 'Cas' person wasn't afraid of him at all, which probably meant he was even more unbalanced.

"There has been some resistance to the new order of things."

"I'm not helping," Dean said, stubbornly. "Not unless you help me get Sammy out of hell."

"But Sam is not in hell, Dean. I have been looking for him."

Brennan wasn't following this conversation at all, but that statement seemed to change things. Dean stopped yelling, and jerked backwards slightly in surprise.

"What?"

"Sam walks the earth. I have been searching for him when I can. He is proving difficult to find."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked quietly.

"I did not wish to return without good news."

"Do you have good news now, then?"

"No."

The room was silent for a moment. The little voice in the back of Brennan's head that only spoke up with irrelevancies in times of extreme stress wondered how they could stand so close to each other and not accidently hit each other with their hand gestures.

Cas looked down first. Brennan was surprised. She had perceived him as the dominant male of the relationship, and being the first to break eye contact was a submissive act.

"I thought Sam was your best friend," he said, hesitantly.

Where did that sudden topic change come from? Brennan wondered. She glanced over at Booth, who seemed intrigued by the conversation. He didn't seem at all surprised by the sudden turn of the conversation.

Dean seemed uncomfortable, all of a sudden. Maybe a little embarrassed. Brennan couldn't be sure. Booth had told her many times that her ability to judge emotions was somewhat lacking.

"Sam's my brother. Brothers don't count."

"Oh," said Cas.

"Did you want something, Cas? Or did you just want to visit me where I couldn't escape?" Dean asked, gesturing at his handcuffs and the locked door.

"Why have you been arrested, Dean?"

Booth seemed to jump back to reality at that. He stood up, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to assert his dominance. He looked quite impressive like that.

"Sit down, both of you," he said sternly.

Dean and Cas sat.

"I'd like to ask you some questions."

"He is much more threatening than you are when you pretend to be an FBI agent, Dean."

Dean smiled a little at that. Not the fake smile that didn't reach his eyes, or the derisive smirk he'd had when arguing with Cas, but a tiny smile of genuine amusement that was quickly reined in. A spark appeared in his eyes, and he seemed more alive. He shrugged when Booth opened his mouth to ask if that was an admission of guilt in the charges of impersonating an officer of the law.

"Angels, dude."

Booth began his questioning once more.

"Why did you try to burn the bones?"

Brennan gave Dean her fiercest glare, remembering what he had done to her evidence.

"Were you involved in the death of Gillian Sparrow in any capacity?"

"No! Dammit, you try to do a good thing and everyone just craps all over you." Dean looked like he wanted to fold his arms defensively across his chest, but couldn't because of the handcuffs. He settled for glaring at Booth.

Brennan leaned forward, angered by his statement. "In what way," she asked through gritted teeth, "could setting fire to the bones of a brutally murdered woman and destroying all chance of her murderer ever being found possibly be a good thing?"

Dean leaned towards her. She was momentarily distracted by his perfect bone structure. How was it possible that such an astoundingly handsome face belonged to such a fundamentally evil man?

Beside her, Booth tensed at Dean's movement.

Dean looked her directly in the eye, and said in perfect seriousness, "How is allowing her spirit to rip apart small children a good thing?"

"How did you know where to find the bones?" Booth asked, ignoring Dean's comment. He still seemed shaken by the appearance of Cas, and Cas's subsequent declaration of himself as an angel of the Lord. Brennan assumed that was why he was not commenting on the fact that both of the men on the other side of the table were obviously insane.

Cas, who had listened silently, passed his blue-eyed gaze across the FBI agent and the anthropologist. "We must ask you not to interfere with Dean's investigation any further."

"Bones," Booth said, "Why don't you get us some coffee?"

Brennan wanted to protest at the dismissal, but saw the note he slid along the desk to her. Call Sweets.

She left the interrogation room.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Sweets was apprehensive as he entered the interrogation room. All Dr Brennan had told him on the phone was that there were two extremely unbalanced men with her and Booth, one of whom was claiming to be an angel of the Lord, and one who was wanted for several counts of murder and torture and had apparently died several times. Also, he was still a little freaked by the big guy lurking in the shadows outside the building.

Booth looked relieved to see him. All three men and Dr Brennan were sipping coffee. Sweets was of the opinion that is was fairly dangerous to give hot coffee to the criminally insane, but the suspects seemed calm and it never hurt to develop a rapport. He made a mental note to remind Booth to offer soda instead next time.

Dean Winchester and 'Cas' seemed to be having a private conversation. Neither man was wearing handcuffs. It was obvious Booth had lost any semblance of control he may have had.

As Sweets entered, Dean was saying: "So why did you really pop in, Cas? I know you didn't just come for a cup of coffee with the nice FBI agent and his hot anthropologist sidekick with social skills that rival yours. Actually, you guys would be perfect for each other... except for the whole non-believer thing... who are you?"

He looked at Sweets. Sweets felt strangely awkward and young under his gaze.

"Dr Lance Sweets. I'm an FBI psychologist." Sweets extended his hand. Dean shook it. Cas looked unsure about what it was for, but had some sort of silent conversation with Dean, and shook it too.

"Dean Winchester. I'm the Michael Sword." Dean seemed to be subtly mocking him, but the claim was intriguing.

"I'm Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord." Castiel was not mocking at all.

"We'll be out of your hair in no time. We just need to convince these two to stop interfering with our investigation." That was Dean again. Serious this time. Sweets silently put both of them down for a diagnosis of religious psychosis.

"Do you fix souls?" Castiel asked him.

"Cas. Concentrate."

Sweets hesitated. "I help people escape damaging thought patterns and reduce aberrant behaviour."

"Can you help Dean? He will not let me fix him."

"Cas!"

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong, and I'll try to help?" Sweets sat next to Bones, taking Dean's file from Booth. This was going to be interesting. He couldn't help noticing that Booth was acting a little strange. He seemed to be averting his eyes from Castiel.

Actually, that was one of the main reasons he'd come in such a hurry in the middle of the night. Dr Brennan had sounded concerned on the phone, hissing: "I think Booth believes him! He keeps crossing himself!"

But, back to the more immediate concern – Sweets looked across at Dean.

"So, Dean – How did you become the Michael Sword?"

"It's a really long story."

"Well, why don't you start with how you came back from the dead?"

"Which time?" Dean seemed to be slightly amused by that, but the smirk on his face obviously covered deep, painful emotion. Something bad, serious trauma, had occurred in this man's life, and he did not want to talk about it.

"Why don't you tell me about each time, starting with the shooting in St Louis?"

"That was a shapeshifter."

Belief in the Supernatural. Childhood trauma of some kind. Lack of knowledge of the crime in interrogations after the attack. Obvious reluctance to acknowledge and think about painful times of his life. Dissociative Identity Disorder?

"So when was really the first time you died?"

"He drowned as a small child." Castiel stated.

Dean looked surprised. "What? When was this?"

"Before your mother was killed. Your soul was the talk of heaven. Then it disappeared, and none of the angels knew how it had been taken back to earth."

Sweets was beginning to doubt that Dean was the only one who needed help. He was fairly sure that he for one, and probably Booth and Brennan, would need serious psychiatric help once this case was solved. Or before.

Dean looked annoyed. "Why did you not tell me that before?"

"It did not seem relevant."

Sweets interrupted. "And after that?"

"Electrocution. Massive heart attack. Doctors gave me two weeks. Sammy dragged me to a faith healer."

"And the faith healer cured you?" Sweets carefully pretended not to notice the voice cracking on the name.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Booth nudge Dr Brennan, and mouth: "I told you they worked." Really professional, Booth.

"His wife bound a reaper and transferred my death to someone else. Didn't find out till after."

Dean seemed upset by that. Depression? Suicidal thoughts? It was odd, though. The placebo effect that most faith healing consisted of would not take hold if the sick person did not want to be healed, and yet Dean looked perfectly healthy.

"What about the next time?"

"Car crash. I was in a coma. The reaper's name was Tessa. I was going to go with her. I should have."

Survivor's guilt? This was not a healthy psyche. "Why didn't you?"

"My Dad sold his soul to the demon that murdered my mother, so I could live and look after Sam."

The mask was slipping. Sweets could see the pain in his eyes. Castiel was right. Dean needed to be fixed, and wasn't sure he wanted to be. Unconscious masochism.

"Then Sam died and I made a deal to bring him back. Gabriel killed me every day for a hundred days, to teach Sam a lesson about trying to get me out of the deal. I don't remember it, but Sam said one time a desk fell on me. The last time, I was dead for six months. Gabriel turned back time, though, so it was like I never died."

"Gabriel did not understand, Dean."

"I know he's your brother and everything, Cas, but Gabriel was a massive douchebag. Turned out OK in the end, though."

"I will let him know you said that. He always liked you."

Dean snorted. "Liked me? Funny way of showing it. Decent sense of humour, though. Wait, was he brought back, then?"

"Father rewarded him for his final show of faith to humanity."

Booth spoke up. "Gabriel the archangel?" He asked, with awe in his voice.

Brennan looked at him scornfully. "Angels aren't real, Booth."

Dean's whole demeanour changed at that. He laughed. "Maybe you should show them your wings, Cas."

Cas looked offended. "I do not show my wings to just anyone, Dean."

The lights flickered and a faint breeze seemed to lift Castiel's hair. Suddenly, Castiel seemed bigger.

Sweets decided to ignore the sudden doubt that entered his consciousness. This was simple religious psychosis with a side helping of grief, depression and self esteem issues. There was no way any of it was true. No way.

This relationship, though. This could be interesting to look into. After, you know, the multiple deaths, angel of the Lord thing was sorted out.

"What happened next?" he asked.

"The hellhounds came for me and dragged me to hell." Dean's whole body tensed, and his eyes went vacant. He seemed to be remembering something terrible. "I was there for forty years."

Post-traumatic stress disorder? He certainly had the main personality traits associated with its development – emotional repression and avoidance.

Dean shook himself out of his reverie. "Then Cas here raised me from perdition. Then we accidentally started the apocalypse and Michael wanted to make me his bitch and Sam was Lucy's vessel and some hunters shot us 'cos they thought Sammy was a monster. We went to heaven that time. Not all it's cracked up to be. Discovered God was on vacation. Now, I did what you wanted, you guys have to do what I want, and back the hell out of my case."

"Do you feel better, Dean? Will you let me repair your soul now? I can give you peace." Cas asked, staring into Dean's eyes.

"I don't want you to fix me, Cas! I don't want paradise, I want my brother back!" Dean spat at him. "Let's go. Get us out of here."

Castiel looked sad. He grasped Dean's shoulder. There was a rush of flapping sounds, almost like a giant bird. Castiel and Dean disappeared.

Sweets fainted.

* * *

 

When Sweets had finally been deemed sufficiently recovered to go home, he made his way automatically to his parking space, too stunned by what had happened in the interrogation room to pay attention to his surroundings. As he reached out to open his car door, he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. A gun. He hadn't even heard footsteps behind him.

A voice said coldly: "Where is my brother?"

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sam Winchester scared the crap out of Sweets, and not just because he was gigantic and holding a gun. Dean might have had the record and several concurrent mental illnesses, but he just hadn't given off serial killer-sociopath vibes. Sam had the look. His eyes were hard, and he didn't seem quite human. There was a feeling around him, like Castiel had given off. Only different.

"Just relax," Sweets squeaked. It didn't come out quite as calm and reasonable as he'd hoped.

Sam pressed the gun harder into his neck. "Where's Dean?"

"I'll take you to him! Just don't shoot!"

"I'm not stupid, Lance. I'm not walking you into the FBI building at gunpoint. We'd never get out. Get in the car." Sam pushed him roughly into the passenger seat, securing his hands with handcuffs. Probably stolen from the security guard. Sweets fought the urge to laugh hysterically. _How does he know my name? How does he know my freakin' name?_

Sweets practiced his deep breathing exercises and tried to memorise the streets as they drove. _Protocol on being kidnapped – what is the protocol on being kidnapped?_ He thought desperately, but it was like his mind had been erased. Panic-induced dissociation.

Their destination was a small apartment in a part of town that Sweets didn't know well. It was a poorer area, where fewer people were likely to pay attention to screams and gunshots. _Crap_ , he wished he hadn't lied.

Inside, Sam tied him to a chair.

"Call your boss and tell him we're making an exchange. You for Dean. My brother is not going down." He found Booth's number on Sweets' speed dial, and held the phone up to Sweets' ear. "Tell him if Dean's not released in one hour, I'm shooting you in the head."

Sweets' deep breathing exercises stopped working.

Sam slapped him in the face. "Look," he said, "I don't want to hurt you." He looked deeply into his eyes. "I'm not some crazy guy who goes around hurting people for fun. I don't like killing people." He sounded almost apologetic, and some of the hardness in his eyes disappeared. The fact that Sam was sorry for it didn't make the prospect of being shot in the head in an hour's time any more appealing, though. "I have to help Dean, though. You understand that, right? He's my brother."

Sweets nodded wordlessly. His mouth was suddenly dry.

Sam pressed the button. The phone dialled Booth's number.

"Booth." Agent Booth's voice sounded rough and sleepy.

Sam nodded to him. "It's Sweets," he stammered, "I'm with Sam Winchester." He could hear Booth jumping out of bed and preparing to leave.

"Where are you?" Booth asked.

Sam frowned at him. Cocked the gun.

"He says to release Dean within an hour or he'll shoot me in the head." Sweets could hear the tremble in his voice.

Booth swore loudly, and then recovered enough to say: "Let me speak to him."

Sam took the phone back, and listened while Booth said something.

 _Booth's good at this. This is what he does. He saves people. He'll save me. Everything will be fine._ Positive thinking didn't seem to be working though. He could see Sam tensing up again as Booth spoke.  Behind Sam, the table seemed to be levitating slightly. Sweets blinked and tore his eyes away. It was probably just the sweat dripping into his eyes doing weird things to his vision, or maybe the stress causing him to hallucinate. He held onto that thought with a desperate but faint hope.

"I know he doesn't deserve to die. He hasn't done anything wrong. I'm sorry, I really am," Sam was saying, "but my brother hasn't done anything wrong either. He doesn't deserve to go down like this – he's a good man, and he's had a really hard life. It's time for me to look after him now. So, I don't want to kill your friend, but I will if you continue to hold Dean. One hour."

Sam snapped the phone shut. Sweets could see tension knotting his muscles, and the hard look was back in his eyes. A strange electricity was in the air, and the table was definitely floating at least a foot off the ground.

"Why do you have to look after Dean?" Sweets asked Sam, ignoring the table because clearly it couldn't actually be floating.

Sam softened again. Just slightly. "That's what family does."

Sweets tried: "I know you feel he's your responsibility, but your brother has serious mental health issues. You might just have to face the fact that he would be better off in a mental health facility. As it stands, that's where he is likely to end up. He almost certainly won't be executed."

Sam seemed to find that slightly funny. "A mental institution? Dean would go crazy in a matter of days. He doesn't like being locked inside. He's not crazy, you know. I mean, maybe a little depression, PTSD, but he's had a hard life, and forty years in hell will do that to you."

_Sam too?_

"So all that stuff about dying repeatedly? That was true? Why don't you tell me about your brother? Why aren't you with him?" _Keep him talking; give the FBI time to track the phone. Try not to get killed._

"I'm dangerous. There's always been something dark inside me. My whole life, Lucifer was preparing me, manipulating me so when the time came I would accept him and let him use me as his vessel. And now that he has, and he's locked away in the cage, the darkness... it's getting harder to control. I can't hurt Dean again; he's just barely holding it together. I have to help from the sidelines."

Sam sounded mournful. Sweets watched him. For a moment, when he was talking about not being able to stay with his brother, Sweets could have sworn he saw tears well up in his eyes. The whole Lucifer thing was freakin' scary, though. He'd thought Dean and Castiel had severe religious psychosis, but believing your entire life had been a product of the devil moulding you to his purpose? That was awful. Not to mention the extreme co-dependence both brothers were exhibiting. If he hadn't been being held hostage as bargaining by one brother for the release of the other, who had disappeared into thin air, he would have loved to do an interview with both of them.

"What about your brother's friend Castiel? Do you believe he's an angel of the Lord?"

"You met Cas? He's alive?"

"He was with Dean. They were arguing."

"But he got smote. I saw him. Chunky soup. God must have brought him back. Wait, Cas was there... did he have his powers?"

"He said he had been sorting things out in heaven." Sweets couldn't believe he was having a conversation about this. Sometimes you had to play along to keep people calm, though. And there was no denying that Dean and Cas had disappeared.

"The FBI doesn't have Dean, do they? Dean and Cas are gone?"

Sweets didn't know what to do. If he told the truth, maybe Sam would just abandon him. Or maybe he would get angry about being set up to get captured by the FBI and kill him. Maybe it would be better to keep lying.

In the end he nodded, because Sam looked angry, and he could feel a panic attack coming on.

"This was a trap? Dammit, when did I get so impulsive?" Sam muttered to himself. "How far away are the cops?" He asked.

"Not long," Sweets squeaked.

Sam Winchester picked up a backpack that had been sitting in the corner. He held his gun at the ready.

There was a noise in the next room.

Sam Winchester left the building.

* * *

 

"Where's my brother?" Dean asked from behind Sweets. Sweets hadn't even heard him come in.

"We must find him," Castiel contributed.

"He went out that window," Sweets replied, indicating with his head, "Hey, could you untie me?"

Sweets felt the sharp point of a knife touch his back, and his whole body went cold. Dean flicked the knife upwards, and the rope came apart. A strange high pitched giggle came out of Sweets' mouth. Dean and Cas headed towards the window.

"Wait, if you just stay here, I think I can help you with your problems. You need to talk to someone."

Dean grinned at him. "Much as I would love to stay and hear about how we're sublimating our unresolved sexual tension into shared religious delusions, I've got a brother to catch and a bunch of kids to save. Maybe next time, dude."

Dean and Cas climbed out the window.

Sweets sighed and leaned back in his chair, waiting for Booth.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

Something was bothering Brennan. Someone who didn't know her well would assume her snappiness and impatience to be merely a by-product of her extreme intelligence and complete lack of social skills, but Angela did know her well, and could see that something was seriously wrong. Bren looked like she hadn't slept at all last night, and was examining Gillian Sparrow's bones carefully. She did not reply when Angela greeted her, and positively exploded when Daisy mounted the platform and cheerfully announced that the bones had been destroyed.

"They are not destroyed, Miss Wick. There is still evidence in these bones. You will find a way to salvage it. The destruction of remains is a serious matter. This woman deserves respect. She deserves justice. And we _will_ catch who did this."

"What happened?" Daisy asked, peering at the gasoline-soaked remains.

"Dean Winchester happened," Brennan replied, glaring.

Angela decided it was time for an intervention.

"Have you been here all night?" She asked, taking Brennan by the arm and attempting to lead her away from the remains.

"Not all night," Brennan protested, resisting Angela's efforts.

"You need some coffee, Sweetie, and the only way to show that woman respect is to let Daisy study her remains, so you can discuss possible solutions based on completely separate examinations."

Eventually, Brennan allowed herself to be led away into Angela's office. Angela got her some coffee and sat down with her.

"Now, Sweetie, what's bothering you? I know it's not just the desecration of the remains. Who's Dean Winchester?"

Brennan seemed to be building up to something she really didn't want to say. "Angela?" She faltered, "Do you believe in... angels?" She sounded like she couldn't quite believe what she was saying.

Brennan was having an existential crisis! Brennan, the ultimate scientist, was questioning her beliefs – beliefs that just yesterday, Angela had heard her expounding on with great vigour to Booth. Something major must have happened last night.

"I believe in the possibility of angels. Maybe not exactly as the bible says, but I don't think anything should be discounted."

Brennan did not say anything for a long moment.

"What's brought this up, Bren? What happened?"

"Dean Winchester tried to burn the remains because he thought her ghost was killing children."

"It's terribly sad that he didn't get help before it got to that point, sweetie, but what does it have to do with angels?"

"Dean Winchester is dead. According to his file, he has faked his death twice. By his own account, he has died over a hundred times, and spent forty years in hell."

"I don't understand. Does he think he's an angel, and that's why he's desecrating remains?"

Brennan hesitated again.

"Do you think he's an angel?"

Brennan shook her head. "Normally, I would have just said he was insane. Even when he was talking about his deaths, I thought he was crazy. Even when Castiel appeared, I kept thinking that, because it goes against everything I know to believe something like that. But I looked for trapdoors, and holographic projectors, and there was nothing there."

"So this Castiel, he appeared out of nowhere?"

"He said he was an angel of the Lord and that Dean was the Michael Sword, and they had a big argument and then they disappeared. Booth kept crossing himself and praying."

Angela was spared the necessity of replying to the extraordinary revelation that her friend was considering believing a man who claimed to be an angel by the entrance of Booth and Sweets.

Booth seemed to be in a hurry, and somewhat hindered by the unusual degree of clinginess Sweets was exhibiting.

"Where's Cam? I need her to go to a crime scene."

"Cam? But I go to the crime scenes, Booth." Brennan said, unaware of how petulant it sounded.

"Fresh body. Six-year-old kid. Just like Dean said." Booth sounded tired. "I looked through recent child murders. Two children in the last two months have had their throats ripped out. Both were in Gillian Sparrow's class."

"You can't seriously think the man who thinks he's a mythological weapon is right about a murder victim's ghost killing students, Booth," said Brennan scornfully, showing no sign that she had just been acknowledging the possibility that he might not be lying about the Michael Sword thing.

"We met an angel last night, Bones. Of course I'm considering the possibility that vengeful spirits exist."

"What if it's them, Booth? What if they are killing the kids and this is some kind of sick joke?"

"Sweets here tells me that it's unlikely."

"Dean and Castiel may have severe psychological problems, but their story accounts for their symptoms, and it's very rare that three people share such intricate delusions," Sweets contributed from somewhere in the region of Booth's left armpit. Booth took an unsubtle step to the right and sighed as Sweets immediately shuffled back into his personal space.

The conversation was surreal. Angela was pretty sure she was dreaming. In real life there was no way Booth, Brennan _and_ Sweets would be standing in her office discussing the possibility of angels and ghosts in a non-hypothetical way. Most of the conversation was going straight over her head, but she did catch one thing. "Wait, three?"

"Sweets ran into Sam Winchester last night," Booth told her.

"I thought Sam was meant to be in hell? Wasn't that what the big fight was about?"

"He's not. He took me hostage to swap for his brother. Said he couldn't directly approach Dean because he was evil and Lucifer had been shaping him to his will for his entire life. And I'm pretty sure he moved the table with his mind."

Angela gave up trying to follow the conversation and just went with it. It was a dream, after all, and she had eaten Mexican last night – it was going to get weirder before it ended.

It did. The lights flickered. It was unnervingly realistic, this dream.

"We have come to burn the remains of Gillian Sparrow. Can you direct us to them?"

The voice belonged to a man in a trench coat who hadn't been there before she had turned her head to look at the lights. Booth crossed himself and knelt at the man's feet. Angela wasn't sure, but she thought she saw the man in the trench coat glance pointedly at the larger man beside him.

"Dude, I am never going to kneel in front of you."

Sweets could work wonders with the subtext of that.

"Guys, I really think we could all benefit from sitting down and discussing this calmly. We're totally freaking out here – how do you do that?" said Sweets from a safe distance.

"Dude, angel. Cas loves his dramatic entrances," the larger one said, seeming slightly amused.

"We must hurry, Dean," Cas said in annoyance.

Angela looked at Brennan. Even if it was just a dream, she was concerned for her friend. This was freaking her out, and she'd been open to the possibility of the supernatural and the afterlife for a long time. Brennan must think she's gone crazy.

Booth open his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a commotion from the lab. Angela heard Hodgins shout. There was a crash and a thud, and a shriek from Daisy. Dean and Cas lead the way out of the office.

Hodgins was pinned to the wall by an invisible hand, his feet dangling helplessly a yard off the floor.

Angela didn't faint, or scream or cry, because it was only a dream, and wasn't really happening. She looked over to the platform where Gillian Sparrow's bones lay.

A giant was standing over them, a lighter in his hand. He glanced up as they ran over. His eyes were filled with black. He flung the lighter, and the remains went up in a rush of flames. The fire reflected on his skin, red light flickering over him.

"Sam," Dean choked out.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

The black receded from Sam's eyes when Dean said his name. He stood, backlit by the flames, and stared at his brother silently. Dean said nothing more, but made a tiny gesture with his head. It obviously meant something along the lines of ' _put the nice man down, Sammy'_ , because on the other side of the room, Hodgins slid to the floor with a thump.

Booth crossed himself and said a silent prayer of thanks. He was almost certain he heard a quiet groan from the angel beside him.

Dean stood rooted to the spot as his brother approached him slowly.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dean looked enquiringly at his angel, and the angel nodded. Presumably that meant ' _yes, it's really your brother',_ because Dean stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sam, and Sam folded around him.

The lab was silent except for the roar of flames, the wailing of the fire alarm, and the hiss as the sprinklers turned on.

The cold water of the sprinklers brought Booth back to his senses. _Crap!_ He should really do something before the lab burnt down and Bones committed grievous bodily harm. She was turning purple with rage. He instructed Sweets, who looked like he was about to faint, to take her outside, make sure everyone got out OK, and direct the fire-fighters in when they got there. He watched as his friends left the room, with some impressive resistance from Bones, before pulling out his gun.

"Sam Winchester, you are under arrest for breaking and entering, arson, and the desecration of human remains. You have the right to remain..." Booth trailed off.

Sam had withdrawn from his brother's arms and turned to face him. His eyes were ink-filled once more. He advanced on Booth.

No-one could ever say that Booth was not a brave man, but he felt his courage failing him then. He took a step backwards as Sam loomed over him, but kept his gun steady, aimed at the man's heart. Assuming he was a man.

"No sudden movements, Sam. Kneel on the floor and place your hands on the back of your head. If you try anything, I _will_ shoot."

Sam stood still, and for a second Booth thought he might be going to follow the order. But then Sam stretched an arm forward and closed his hand tightly. Invisible pressure squeezed Booth's throat and he choked on his breath. The gun slipped from his hand, clanging against something metal on its way to the floor. He scrabbled at the air around his throat, and he prayed to God to deliver him from this evil.

And then Dean was standing in front of him, blocking his line of sight. It didn't make much difference anyway – his vision was going fuzzy from the oxygen deprivation. From a long way away, he heard Dean speaking to his brother, a quiet, even tone. Calming, the way you negotiated a hostage release, or spoke to a savage dog.

"It's OK, Sammy. You don't need to do this. He's not going to hurt you. He's not going to hurt me. Just let him go, and Cas will take us away from here. We're together now, we don't need anything else. Everything's gonna be fine."

Booth felt the pressure ease slightly, and sucked in a desperate breath. Air. Air was wonderful stuff. But then the pressure built up again, and black spots danced before his eyes.

"You don't want to do this Sammy. This is hell talking, this isn't you. You don't kill innocent men. Remember how awful it was when Meg killed that man? Well this will be worse if you do it. You'll regret it for the rest of your life. Let him go, little brother. Let him go, and we'll leave. Go to the Grand Canyon..."

Sam's grip weakened once more, and Booth breathed once more. He had not quite realised until today just how much pleasure a person could obtain by the simple act of breathing.

Sam spoke, and his voice was softer than Booth had expected. Almost childlike. Scared. "What if it is me, Dean? I'm so _angry_. I _want_ to kill him. What if Lucifer just brought to the surface what was there all along? Maybe it's just my nature and I should stop fighting it. "

"It's not you, Sam. I know you. I brought you up. You wanted to escape. You don't like killing things. You were not born for this."

"What if I was lying to myself, Dean? Maybe I wanted to escape because I liked it too much."

"You can't fake that kind of outrage, Sammy. And even at the end, even after the Ruby and the demon blood and the dreams Lucy gave you, you didn't give in to him. You stayed you. A good man, who doesn't want the world to burn, who doesn't want people to die. You don't want to kill Booth, Sammy. He's just doing his job. He doesn't understand."

Booth could feel Sam's grip loosen further. He was liking Dean more by the second. He thought he could hear fire engines arriving outside, and really hoped they wouldn't burst in right in the middle of this precarious situation. Sam might snap and kill him right then and there. _If I get out of this,_ he promised himself, _I will tell Bones I love her. I can't die now because she doesn't know._

"Come on, Sammy. No one's going to hurt us. Let's go home. I've got the Impala close. Cas will take us there, and we'll drive to South Dakota. Just you and me. We'll go see Bobby. It'll be just like old times. The Winchesters, together again. "

Sam released his hold entirely. Through the clearing haze of his vision, Booth could see the blackness draining from his eyes. Suddenly, he seemed to be a small boy.

"I want to go home, Dean."

"OK, Sammy, we're going. Cas?"

The angel stepped forward, but just as he was about to place his hands on the Winchesters' shoulders, the doors slid open, and the fire fighters ran in.

Sam lost touch with himself again, and the blackness slid across his eyes. The first four firemen were flung backwards through the heavy glass of the door, and the others stood frozen in place, unable to move a muscle.

Sam seemed to grow again, and he rounded on his brother. Black smoke billowed from the dying flames behind him, and his hair was plastered to his face by the water from the sprinklers.

"You said we were safe, Dean! You said no one was coming for us! You lied to me! How do I even know you're my brother? Maybe I'm still in the cage and you're just a dream sent by Lucifer to hurt me!"

Sam was bearing down on his brother, and Booth was sure he was going to kill him. He reached for his gun with shaking hands. But then Castiel was between them, standing protectively over Dean, some sort of celestial blade gleaming in his hand.

"I do not want to hurt you, Sam. You are my friend. But you must not hurt your brother."

Sam turned his attention to Castiel, pulling out a knife and darting towards the angel.

"You cannot kill me Sam. Only an angel can kill another angel."

"Dean killed Zachariah."

"Yes."

Booth crept toward his gun.

Behind Castiel, Dean was inching sideways.

"I have seen your soul, Sam. You are in remarkably good condition for having been possessed by Lucifer. With care, you have a chance at redemption. You must let Dean help you. He has been in pain without you."

Booth picked up his gun and cocked it. Sam turned his head toward him. Dean lunged for his knife and grabbed it, twisting his brother's arm until the knife slipped from his hand. Castiel leapt forward and pressed two fingers to Sam's forehead. Sam crumpled.

The fire-fighters unfroze, and looked with horror at the scene before them.

Dean looked at Booth. "Sorry about your throat. Are you going to have to arrest us again?"

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Brennan was so relieved that the lab hadn't burnt down that when Booth finally emerged, she ran over and hugged him. She held him tightly for a little longer than she had intended, and a slight feeling of embarrassment washed over her when she realised she was being stared at. She looked up from Booth's chest, and saw Castiel staring at them, his head tilted to the side, a slight frown on his face. His eyes were very blue. The scrutiny made her uncomfortable, so she stepped back and looked away.

"Are you alright?" The man who claimed to be an angel asked.

"She's fine, Dude. She was just worried about her boyfriend." Dean had been watching too.

"He's not-" She started, but stopped because Booth looked like he wanted to say something. He took her by the arm, and gave Dean and Castiel one of those significant looks that she never quite understood. Dean turned away slightly. Apparently Castiel didn't understand it either, because he kept staring until Dean turned him around.

"There's something I wanted to say to you, Bones," Booth told her. He smelled of smoke and gasoline, and there were harsh red welts on his neck. "I realised, when I was in there-" He was cut off by the appearance of paramedics, wheeling an unconscious Sam Winchester out of the lab on a stretcher, and the arrival of several FBI vehicles.

"I understand you have some fugitives for us, Booth," a black-suited Agent called.

"Sorry, Bones. I guess I'll catch up with you later."

As Booth left to speak to the Agent, Brennan realised Dean was handcuffed. She felt a surge of pride that Booth had overcome three insane people, at least two of whom appeared to be on some sort of drugs to give them unusual strength and speed. _And the ability to appear and disappear into thin air. And hold people off the floor with their minds._ She pushed that thought down hard, and walked back to her friends.

Angela was fussing over Hodgins, which Brennan was glad of, because otherwise she would definitely be saying something about how her hugging Booth meant that they should be in a romantic relationship. Which wasn't true. She and Booth were partners, and cared about each other in a purely platonic way, which was fine. Friendship was all she wanted from him. Really.

Sweets didn't mention the slightly-too-long-hug either, because he was giggling hysterically, and kept asking: "Did you see his eyes? Did you see his _eyes_?" Over and over. He was extremely pale. Beside him, Daisy was silent.

Brennan was beginning to think she was the one that was on drugs. Maybe the remains had contained some sort of powerful hallucinogen, and she had ingested it during her preliminary examination. Daisy was never silent.

Cam was off talking to the Chief fire-fighter in an efficient, businesslike way, as though it was just one of Hodgins' experiments gone wrong. She glanced over at Brennan, and nodded slightly, and expression Brennan thought might be sympathy, or _I was worried about the lab too_ , on her face.

_The lab!_ She needed to see the extent of the damage, in case she needed to find an alternative workplace for the next few days. The remains she had been working on had almost certainly been destroyed, but maybe there were a few pieces that could be salvaged. She would not let the murder of Gillian Sparrow remain unresolved because of the interference of a couple of madmen.

Booth intercepted her on the way to the entrance, and wouldn't let her go in because the fire-fighters were still working, and then the FBI would have to secure the crime scene. Brennan was unsure why, because they had already caught the perpetrator, but she let Booth lead her away anyway, because he needed her at the scene of the murder of the six-year-old he had come into the lab about that morning.

"I thought you needed Cam?" She said suspiciously.

"Cam has to deal with the authorities about the fire at the moment. I'll need her for the autopsy, but we can bring the body to her. We have reason to believe that we will find one of Gillian Sparrow's missing bones at the crime scene, and will need you to identify it."

Brennan slipped into the passenger seat of Booth's SUV. It wasn't until after they had pulled away from the curb that she realised Dean Winchester was sitting in the backseat.

 

* * *

 

Booth had been right. There was part of Gillian Sparrow at the crime scene. At least, it seemed highly probable that it was part of Gillian Sparrow, because it matched the wear expected in the left mandibular molar of a woman of her age, and appeared to have been forcibly removed from the mandible, possibly with pliers. Brennan was really starting to dislike people who pulled out teeth.

Booth was looking at her strangely, like he thought she was going to start crying or something, which was ridiculous.

"It doesn't fit Gorgonzola's MO," he told her. Usually, she would have commented on his mistake in the name, but she had figured out a few months ago that he did it to belittle the criminal, and somehow it made her feel better.

She nodded, and crouched down to pick up the tooth.

"No! Wait, don't touch it!" Dean Winchester shouted urgently, from somewhere behind her. How had he even got out of the SUV? He'd been handcuffed in! Brennan wasn't even sure why Booth had brought him along. Something about him being innocent and it needing to look like he's been arrested so Booth couldn't be blamed for the fire in the lab. Booth had said something about Dean saving his life, so she didn't say anything, settling for glaring at Dean.

She picked up the tooth.

The wind suddenly got very cold. She shivered slightly as she slipped the tooth into an evidence bag.

She turned around. Gillian Sparrow was standing over the outline where the dead boy had been. Blood soaked the ground at her feet. She looked just like she had in her photo – like an elementary school teacher. She was short, and slightly plump, with curly brown hair. Only now there was blood running from her throat, snaking in rivulets down her arms and torso, and she was pale, so pale. And she was holding a knife. And flickering.

Gillian Sparrow blurred towards her.

Somewhere, Dean was shouting at someone to undo his frickin' handcuffs. Then: "Cas! Cas! I need you right freakin' now, man! Bring salt!" into thin air. Brennan _knew_ Castiel wasn't there, because she would have noticed him staring at people in the SUV.

Then Booth was there, diving in front of her, even though she was perfectly capable of fighting off this... thing by herself. The knife came down and blood spurted from Booth's leg, and suddenly, she was very, very angry.

She lunged forward, intending to catch the woman in a hold that would both disarm her and prevent her escape. But when she got there, the woman was on the other side of Booth, knife dripping with his blood, glaring at Brennan in absolute fury. A tremor of fear ran through her, but no one stabbed Booth when she was around and got away with it. She leapt forward again, trying to block out Booth's groans of pain as he dragged himself out of the way.

The dead woman punched with surprising force, knocking Brennan to the ground. She raised the knife, but Brennan rolled away. Gillian Sparrow recovered and aimed again.

From a little way to their left, Dean Winchester's voice said: "Finally! What took you so long?" And then a few seconds later: "Hey bitch, want a real fight?"

The entity was distracted, and rushed at Dean, who had somehow acquired a shotgun. He fired once, and she disintegrated. Brennan let out a sigh of relief and ran over to Booth.

Booth was fine. The wound in his leg was miraculously healed, and he was kneeling, head bowed, before Castiel. Praying again. Brennan thought Castiel looked slightly annoyed, but she found it difficult to tell these things at the best of times, and Castiel hardly ever moved his face.

"We have to go, she'll be back," Dean called, running over and dragging Booth up. "Run to the car," he instructed, reloading his shotgun. Brennan decided not to ask where he had got it from. Or how Castiel had got there. She grabbed Booth's arm and ran.

 

* * *

 

They heard several more shotgun blasts from the safety of the SUV, and when Dean and Castiel arrived back, they both looked a little annoyed.

Dean was saying: "You forgot gas! Have you ever tried to set a tooth on fire with no gasoline? Not even lighter fluid, Cas!"

"It has never come up, Dean."

"My life sucks."

They carried on that way most of the way back to the FBI building.

Then Cas said: "Where can we find Dr Sweets? We require his services."

_You really do,_ thought Brennan.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sweets was in his kitchen, freaking out. He had the day off because the events of the previous night had been extremely stressful, and he had almost hyperventilated after seeing Sam get his evil on at the lab. He was pretty sure that there was at least some truth to the stories of angels and demons the Winchesters had been spinning. Sam definitely wasn't fully human. Humans could not move things with their minds. And the whole appearing out of nowhere thing made it fairly likely that Castiel's claim was true too. Although, there was always the possibility that Castiel was not an angel, but some other entity that could teleport. Like a time-lord. Maybe he was secretly the Doctor. That would be awesome.

It was OK for now, though. Sam was safely in a heavily guarded padded cell in a nearby FBI facility. Nothing to worry about, right? As long as nobody opened the door.

"We require your services," Castiel announced solemnly. Sweets narrowly escaped a heart attack. Castiel and Dean stood in the doorway.

"In what way?" Sweets asked, like it was totally normal for time-lords to be standing in his kitchen.

Dean and Cas sat down opposite him at the table.

"We need you to fix Sam," said Dean.

"And Dean," Cas added.

Dean turned to his friend. Or Angel. Or time-lord. As the case may be. "I told you, I don't need fixing. I'm fine. We just need him to go back to normal, and everything will be great."

"He is very unhappy. I have not seen him smile for more than a year. I think he is depressed," Cas continued, ignoring Dean. He looked deeply into Sweets' eyes. It made him slightly uncomfortable.

"How would you know if I've been smiling? You haven't been around for months. Maybe I smile all the time when you aren't there!"

"I have been watching from afar, Dean. I can hear the screams of your soul. It is very distracting."

"Stalk me much?" Dean grumbled, but his eyes warmed slightly, like he was secretly kind of pleased.

These two would be excellent to work with. Extremely interesting.

"What makes you believe that Dean in depressed?" Sweets asked, "I mean, other than the screaming soul thing, which I'm sure is totally annoying, but no good for basing a diagnosis on."

"I have been reading," said Cas, withdrawing a book from his trench coat pocket. The DSM-IV-TR. Impressive. That coat must have giant pockets, because it was a huge book – the comprehensive guide to all mental illnesses, used by clinical psychologists worldwide. It must weigh a ton. Or maybe Cas had used his angelic shrinkage powers, or sonic screwdriver or something to fit it in his pocket. "Dean exhibits all the symptoms of both Major Depressive Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He will not allow me to heal his soul. I require you to fix him."

Sweets was trying to figure out how to explain that it didn't work like that, that simply sitting in front of a psychologist didn't fix someone, when Dean broke in. He sounded angry.

"I thought you said you were busy," he growled at Cas.

"I was."

"You had time to read that, but not to come see me? It's freakin' enormous! It must have taken you weeks!"

"I read quickly. You were not receptive to my company."

Dean turned back to Sweets. "I'm fine. You need to fix Sam."

"I really think we should discuss this, Dean. If you are suffering from either of those disorders, it is very serious... where are you going?" Sweets trailed off.

Dean stood up. "If you aren't going to help, I'll just go get Sammy myself." He glared at Sweets, and then at Castiel, and turned to stalk out of the room.

Castiel stood. "Dean. Sit down." It was an order. Sweets hadn't realised that Cas could look angry. He could. It was scary. If Sweets had been Dean, he would have sat down immediately. Possibly on the floor.

Dean was not Sweets, though, and he didn't scare that easily. He stopped, and stood his ground, glaring at Castiel.

"What if I don't, Cas? What are you going to do? Smite me? Not be my friend anymore? Because, really, what kind of friend abandons someone who has just lost everyone and everything that matters to him, just because Daddy's home and he's given him some new toys?"

"I have a job to do, Dean. I gave up everything for you! I was faithful to you and to humanity even though it cost me my family, my place in heaven, and my grace. I was smote for you. Twice! And now I have been asked back to heaven to make changes for the good of humanity, and you are angry because I cannot call you every day! You are being selfish, Dean."

"Selfish? I gave up my whole life for other people. It's my turn to be selfish, Cas! It's my turn!" Dean's voice rose into a yell. He stepped closer to Castiel, until their bodies were almost pressed up against each other.

Sweets watched as the two men stared into each other's eyes. He felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed to be witnessing it. He was unconcerned about listening to an argument, or a conversation spoken out loud. Valuable insights could be gained from those. But watching this felt invasive. 

At last, Dean looked away. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll talk to the guy –  _after_  we save Sammy from a padded cell."

Castiel nodded his approval, the corners of his mouth twitching in a slightly smug way. "We must hurry, before he succumbs to the evil he has been fighting so hard."

They circled the table to stand next to Sweets, who was still sitting awkwardly with his mouth open, thinking that this relationship was in definite need of some therapy. Castiel laid one hand on Dean's right shoulder, and one on Sweets' left.

It was the strangest sensation.


	9. Chapter 9

Sweets had decided he didn't like travelling by angelic teleportation. It happened so fast he didn't understand what had happened until he opened his eyes to a white-walled cell, with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and a sudden rush of blood to the head. He thought he would probably rank it below flying in a plane but marginally above crawling bare-kneed over concrete.

The cell was padded and large enough to move around in, and Sweets knew that the door was heavily guarded. Sam Winchester was strapped to a white bed in the center, eyelids blinking droopily.

"Sammy?" Dean said gently, approaching his brother.

"Dean?" Sam inquired hopefully.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me. Cas is here too. We brought someone to help you."

"Hello," squeaked Sweets. He wasn't sure he was okay with being locked in a room with a man who, not twelve hours previously, had been holding his friend by the throat, two feet off the ground, using only the power of his mind. The black-filled eyes and throbbing veins would not quite fade from Sweets' mind, even as Sam lay pathetically on the cushioned bed.

"No-one can help me," Sam whispered.

"Don't say that, Sam. Sweets, here, is going to make you all better. Fix your head so you're you again."

"I'm evil, Dean. We just have to face it. I was trying to help you, and I got mad, and..." Sam trailed off. He weakly attempted to raise one arm, but his restraints held him close to the bed, sedatives doing the rest of the job.

Dean leaned over his brother and began to unbuckle the strap around his arm. Sweets moved to protest, but Castiel was  _looking_  at him again, so he stopped. It appeared that it was alright for Castiel to question Dean's judgement, but not for Sweets to. That struck Sweets as a little unfair, because he  _was_  the mental health professional in this situation, and clearly in a position to know more about the appropriate treatment of the criminally insane. They had brought him here against his will, and now they weren't even going to listen to his advice.

The strap fell away from Sam's arm, and Dean moved around to remove the binding on the other one.

Sam protested confusedly, "What are you doing? I'm dangerous. I could hurt you..."

"Dude, I'm pretty sure you could do that with your psychic crap anyway, so it won't really make a difference. But you won't hurt anyone. You're Sam. You don't hurt anyone unless they really deserve it."

Sam sat up and blinked at Sweets, like he didn't quite recognise him.

Dean looked at Sweets too, and made some sort of tiny gesture with his eyes. Sweets was usually pretty good with body language, but Dean seemed to forget to use his words sometimes – probably because he was so used to being with people he didn't need to use them with. After a second, he realised he was meant to be fixing Sam.

"I'm Dr Sweets, Sam. I'm a psychologist. Do you remember me?"

Sam looked down, mumbling something into his chest.

Dean clapped a hand onto Sam's shoulder. He didn't say anything, but it seemed to mean something to Sam, because he lifted his head, looked Sweets straight in the eye and apologised.

It was the impressively heartfelt apology of only the truly repentant and the over-acting sociopath. It was even in the eyes. They were hazel now, all traces of darkness receded. They were sad, and scared and sorry.

Sweets accepted the apology for the kidnapping even though he didn't really want to, because Sam seemed genuinely horrified by his actions, and both Dean and Cas were fixing him with laser beam glares from opposite sides of the room.

"Why don't you tell me your story?" he suggested, "It might help to get some of the weight off your chest."

"Excellent!" said Dean. "Sammy loves to talk about feelings and emo crap, don't you Sam?"

Sam almost smiled at that. But he didn't.

It was interesting seeing the Winchesters together. They were obviously very close. Unusually close, Sweets thought, judging by the way they moved around each other, and the almost-secret language they seemed to have, where everything Dean said to his brother seemed to have a deeper meaning than the words themselves. Not to mention the whole taking-hostages-to-free-my-brother thing. And the I-don't-want-paradise-I-want-my-brother-back thing. Dangerously close, even. Too co-dependent to survive well apart. Sweets was willing to bet that the relationship was at least partly responsible for Sam losing the sense of self that kept him sane. Especially if they had fought.

"I tried to escape it," Sam said bitterly. Sweets hated it when people started in the middle of conversations and never really got round to telling him what they were talking about. Booth and Bones did it all the time. He was starting to think they did it just to annoy him.

"Tried to escape what?"

"My destiny. When I was six months old, a demon broke into our house and burnt our mother alive so it could bleed into my mouth. It wanted me to lead its demon army. Gave me death visions. And you know, that sucked pretty hard. It killed my girlfriend, you know. Yellow eyes." Sam leaned forward confidentially.

Two days ago, Sweets would have had this guy down as a paranoid schizophrenic without a second thought. Dean too. If you categorised Dean's stories about hell and the angels as delusions and hallucinations, Dean ticked every single box for the diagnosis. Dean had major problems. Sweets was actually amazed he was walking around. But Dean would come later. Now was Sam's time.

"I died," Sam told him.

He'd come back from the dead, too? What the hell was with these guys and not staying dead?

"Dean sold his soul to bring me back."

Dean sold his soul for his brother? When it was time for Dean's session, they were going to have a serious talk about co-dependence and unhealthy levels of devotion. Possibly even obsession.

"But really it was all part of the bigger plan to get me to do what the devil wanted. Dean was the righteous man, y'know, and Cas pulled him out, but it was too late to save me. I fell down the path to hell when he went downstairs, and I can never get off it."

Dean patted his brother's shoulder again, in an almost fatherly way. "Yes you can, Sammy. All we have to do is get you back to being you, and you'll be right back on the stairway to heaven." He paused. "Heaven's probably better than last time, now, 'coz Cas is in charge. Last time kinda sucked, but you still ended up there even though you were Lucy's meatsuit. That must mean you're a good person."

These words didn't seem to be as much of a comfort to Sam as Dean had been hoping.

"Maybe then, but not anymore. Even upstairs, I could tell I shouldn't have been there. When our greatest hits were playing, I could see how you were looking at me. Like I didn't belong there! All my memories that played up there were selfish! Things that hurt you, so much. And all yours were of making other people feel better, making people happy. I'm not you, Dean! You deserve heaven. I'm selfish, and I hurt people, and sometimes I don't care. And now the demon blood has twisted me inside, and I'll never be me again!"

Dean took his hand off Sam's shoulder and stepped back. Blackness was filling Sam's eyes once more.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sweets wasn't quite sure what happened next, just that there was a loud smashing noise and the next time he opened his eyes he was lying on the floor. There was a giant hole in the wall of the building. A Sam-sized hole. Sam was gone.

"Whaa?" He said. He had meant it to be "What happened? Is everyone alright?" but there was something wrong with his tongue.

Dean was slumped against the wall on the other side of the room. He wasn't even trying to move. Sweets thought he might be going to cry.

"Are you hurt, Dean?" Castiel asked. He stood over Dean, his coat torn, plaster dust greying his hair. He looked like a child playing an old homeless man in a school play.

"We lost him..." Dean said, so quietly Sweets wasn't sure he'd heard him. He sounded exhausted, defeated.

"We must go after him."

Dean didn't move. Cas stood looking at him, and didn't move either. Sweets was mildly annoyed that neither of them had asked if he was alright. He was pretty sure he had a concussion. Dean and his angel were looking blurry, and waves of dizziness washed over him every time he attempted to sit up.

"I'm fine," he said, not really expecting a response.

"The FBI agents have noticed his escape. They will be following him." Cas continued.

"Do you think he'd die if they shot him?"

"I think so. He is still mostly human."

"Will he go to heaven?"

_Christ! Oh, crap, blasphemy with an angel in the room has to be bad. I mean... Oh dear. Choosing his brother over paradise to contemplating killing him, in less than five minutes. Stop him killing his brother. Think!_ Sweets struggled upright, fighting the fuzziness that swallowed his thoughts.

"I am not sure. Possibly he can still get there. Unless he kills someone." Cas was very matter of fact about it.

"Well, what happens when you smite people? Does the soul get destroyed? What happened when you were smote?" Dean's voice was cracking. Sweets couldn't see his face, but he sounded like he was horrified to even be contemplating the idea.

"I will not smite your brother, Dean."

Staff from the facility were approaching the hole in the wall. Sweets could hear an FBI agent warning people about bombs.

"Guys?" Sweets said, "I think if we're going to disappear, now would be a good time." He crawled over to Dean and Castiel, who both looked slightly surprised to see him.

"We must go, Dean. We are meant to be imprisoned. They will not respond well to our presence." Castiel reached two fingers towards Sweets' forehead, and the other hand towards Dean's. The strange jerking feeling came back, and when Sweets opened his eyes a second later, the white-padded walls were nowhere in sight.

He was on the ground again. It seemed to be a common theme of life with the Winchesters and company. He was looking at a wheel. The tyre was black and with a thick layer of tread, and the hubcap was unusually shiny. He rolled over. The sky was very blue, the sun in the west. Afternoon, he judged. Afterwards, he realised he could have figured that out by looking at his watch, but somehow that didn't seem like something a kickass action hero who saved people from turning into demons did. Not that he was doing a particularly good job of that so far. The day had just flown past, what with the burning corpse in the lab in the morning, and the extremely interesting psychoanalysis of the Winchester brothers and Sam's dramatic escape. Being awesome was tiring.

"Is the shrink OK?" he heard Dean ask, and then Castiel was peering at him, his eyes extremely blue and way too close to his face.

"It would appear so. He is unused to excitement."

Sweets would have liked to protest at that – he was an FBI psychologist! He spent half his life in small rooms with murderers. Excitement, he could handle. He was unused to discovering that angels and demons existed as more than a metaphorical concept, and the world had nearly ended several months ago, without his even realising. He was unused to teleporting. He was unused to being kidnapped (twice if you counted being unexpectedly angel-transported into a padded cell). He was unused to having to work out problems in the relationships of two extremely unbalanced brothers and a highly eccentric angel of the lord with no social skills. He wasn't unused to excitement, but was being a little overwhelmed by the absolute overhaul of his entire belief system. Also, he hadn't had a chance to eat lunch.

"We need him on his game. We have to get to Sam before he kills anyone, or anyone kills him." Dean was loading some kind of dart into a gun. Hopefully horse-tranquillisers. Sweets was reassured by Dean's sudden return to a businesslike demeanour. Apparently the few minutes break for travel had been enough for him to pull himself together. Sweets just hoped the complete nervous breakdown would hold off until after they got Sam back.

"Sam has just left the park where we burned the tooth this morning," Cas reported.

"How do you know that?" Sweets asked. Having an angelic tracking system in your head would be awesome.

"It was on the police scanner."

Disappointing.

"Get in the car," Dean ordered. Sweets reached for the door of the awesome shiny black car, and stopped. Dean and Cas were looking at him. Like he was an alien, or something. Like he was doing something unbelievably out of the natural order of things. Dean inclined his head. Right. Backseat. Of course. He was always in the back seat.

They followed the reports on the police scanner to a small park in the suburbs. According to Dean, it looked just like the one that morning where they had burned the tooth and Cas had forgotten to bring the lighter fluid. Sweets wasn't even going to ask. They pulled up at the same time as Agent Booth's black SUV, which sped in from the opposite direction. Everyone tumbled out at once, Sweets and Dean and Cas from the Impala, and Booth and Brennan from the SUV.

"Keep back," Dean warned, as they made their way into the grassy centre of the park.

There, standing still in the centre, eyes black and veins popping, was Sam. Beside him, a middle-aged slightly chubby woman stood, holding a knife and bleeding profusely from the throat.


	11. Chapter 11

Bones was finally starting to accept that the events of the day were really happening. Booth was glad of that. In the long run it would be good for her to accept God. She was a good person, and God would love her even more once she began to believe in Him. She hadn't quite got that far yet, still trying to rationalise Castiel's miraculous healing ability and appearances from nowhere, using any explanation she could come up with, however tenuous. However, she had accepted the ghost as real with surprising quickness, quoting six or seven cultures with supernatural lore. Soon she would no longer be able to explain away Castiel's claims.

Booth had his own worries, though. Castiel did not fit in with the stories of angels he had heard his whole life. Angels of the Lord as he knew them did not wear trench coats and appear in interrogation rooms. The angels of his imaginings did not stare at him as though he was an alien and then return to arguing with felons. And angels of the Lord certainly did not get progressively more irritated every time he prayed. Did that mean that all of the teachings of the church were wrong? What if God, too, was not what he had been taught?

And then there was Dean Winchester. Booth's opinion of Dean had gone up about twenty points when he had been trying to talk Sam down, and then another ten when he had destroyed the ghost, but he still couldn't say he liked the guy. Maybe there was some truth to his claims he was innocent of murder, but any number of the other charges were legitimate. Credit card fraud, definitely, and escape from police custody. Theft. Breaking and entering. Assault. Dean Winchester might not be a murderer, and he might not be insane, but he was definitely not harmless. He was dishonest, and possibly even amoral. And yet God had seen fit to bring him back from hell, and place him in the care of an angel. Dean didn't appreciate what he had. He didn't deserve an angel.

Booth's musings were cut short by the ringing of his phone. Sam Winchester had escaped. He had blown a hole in the wall of the facility. Booth frowned in annoyance.Surely a top team of law enforcement officers should be capable of following out simple instructions. He'd told them Sam had to be heavily sedated, and they hadn't done it, and now Sam was free to choke the life from someone else. He only hoped that Dean and Castiel were with him. Even if he didn't like Dean, the guy was brave, and he loved his brother, and if anyone could talk Sam out of murder, it was him. And Castiel could call on the power of the host and destroy Sam, if it came down to that. He hoped it wouldn't.

Fifteen minutes later, Booth and Bones were climbing out of the SUV beside the park where Sam had last been spotted. Bones had insisted on coming, and it worried Booth. He had tried to explain what Sam could do, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. He had settled for making her wear a bulletproof vest. Not that it would really help, but it made him feel better.

Across the road, Dean and Castiel and... was that _Sweets?_ Climbed out of a beautiful black Chevy Impala. Dean had some kind of gun, and he looked different to before. Harder. Determined. In charge.

"Stay back," Dean ordered.

They followed him to the middle of the field.

Sam looked like he had in the lab, murderous and demonic and enormous. The ghost from that morning stood beside him. They seemed to be locked in some kind of standoff. Booth crossed himself and said a silent prayer. Castiel glared at him.

Dean was hissing orders, telling Bones that there would be some kind of remains around, and they needed to find them, sending Sweets back to the car for salt and shotguns and iron. Booth felt slightly inadequate, and could still feel Castiel's eyes on him.

Dean swung around to face him. "And you stop praying. You're distracting Cas. Hold this." He shoved the gun into Booth's hands. "If Sam looks like he's going to hurt someone, shoot him."

Up close, Booth could see that it was a high powered tranquilizer gun, but even so, the way Dean said it seemed kind of callous. But then he caught Dean's eye and he knew that it wasn't because Dean didn't care.

Sweets came back, staggering under the weight of a large sack of salt, a shotgun, and a bag of rounds. Dean immediately set him to work pouring the salt in a large circle around his brother and the vengeful spirit.

The spirit was not hurting Sam. It seemed to be whispering in his ear. Sam squeezed his hand into a fist, and the spirit dissolved, reforming behind him. Sam turned to face her. She lifted her knife, but didn't use it. A noise that could almost have been the wind swept across the field. Booth was suddenly shivering. He could see ice crystals forming in Sam's hair.

"Do it."

Louder. "Do it, Sam."

Sam did nothing.

"Do not deny your nature, Sam. The light-bringer will reward you."

Beside Booth, Dean murmured, "No, Sammy. No."

Sam moved slightly, and Booth saw her. A little girl. Younger than Parker. Couldn't be more than five or six. He cocked the tranq gun. Dean made frantic _stay back_ gestures.

"He is part of you, Sam. You are part of him. Accept your true nature. Lucifer will be whole once more."

Sam bent over the little girl. Booth could hear her whimpering in fear.

"Now," ordered Dean.

Booth aimed and fired. The dart hit Sam's neck, and he wavered. Castiel was beside Sam, pulling the little girl away from him, and disappearing.

Dean was running to their right, crossing the saltline, shotgun trained on the ghost.

"Come and get me, you Satan-worshipping bitch!" He shouted, and the ghost rushed towards him.

Sam was still standing, veins throbbing in his neck. He turned to look at Booth, and Booth felt a deep rush of fear run through him. With shaking hands, he re-loaded the gun, aimed and fired, before Sam could lift his hand. Sam wobbled, but did not fall.

Not far away, Dean was shouting and swearing, and firing salt-rounds at the ghost, but he seemed a long way away as Sam loomed over him. Sam lifted his hand and concentrated, as he had done in the lab. A panicked thought rushed through Booth's head – where was Bones?

Nothing happened. The tranquilizers were setting in. And then Castiel was there, minus the little girl, and laying his fingers to Sam's forehead. Sam dropped to the grass. Booth dropped to his knees, breathing a sigh of relief, and thanking heaven for the escape.

"Dude, a little help over here," Dean called, and Castiel picked up an iron rod and ran to his side. Booth took up another. He wasn't sure where they'd come from; Sweets must have taken another trip back to the car. He ran over to help.

Dean was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, red streams flowing into his eyes. Castiel swung his iron bar through the ghost, and she disappeared for an instant. Dean wiped his eyes and reached for the gun that had flown from his hand.

The ghost reappeared behind him, and flung Booth aside, securing non-corporeal hands around Dean's neck. Castiel swung the bar again.

Before the iron touched the spirit, a red glow swept through her, and she disappeared, screaming.

Dean sighed with relief, and lay back on the ground. Booth followed his example.

Bones and Sweets emerged from the bushes about twenty yards away. "Did we do it right?" Sweets asked.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

Angela had been comforting Hodgins after his ordeal. He was very shaken and had needed a friend, and even if things hadn't worked out between them, she would always be willing to take care of him.

Hodgins had told her everything that had happened, and they had spent hours just sitting in his living room, drinking coffee and discussing the surreal events of the day. While Angela had been listening to Brennan's confusion, Hodgins had been at his station, working as usual. The samples he had been examining had been fascinating. Angela had got a little bit lost while he was talking about the specifics, but it came down to this: Dirt from a different region, candle wax, various rare herbs, and goat's blood. That's right, goat's blood.

"It was a satanic ritual killing, Angela! Black magic! Goat's blood!" Hodgins had been disturbingly excited about it.

He hadn't got any further than that, though, because that was when Sam Winchester had come in. Sam had somehow managed to dispose of the security guard and make it through the automated security system without setting off the alarm, or anyone noticing, despite being a giant that was carrying a can of gasoline and a large carton of salt. Daisy had seen him first, as she came back from the bathroom. He was pouring gasoline over the already damaged corpse on the examination table. Her shriek had brought Hodgins running from the other side of the lab, and that was when Sam's eyes turned black.

Hodgins couldn't talk about being slammed against the wall by magic. It was too painful. They had gone to make a second cup of coffee instead.

She was almost certain that this wasn't a dream, now. Dreams did not usually involve large periods of waiting around for emergency services, and none of the other dreams she'd had about Hodgins had finished with them fully clothed, looking up Satan-Worship websites on his laptop.

It took them six hours, four cups of coffee each, and two cartons of Chinese, but eventually they found some useful information, and came up with a list of possible rituals that used the substances Hodgins had found on Gillian Sparrow's remains.

Angela found it a little shocking that instructions for Satanic rituals were freely available on the web, but some of the sites made surprisingly good arguments for devil worship. A few days ago she would have said that it was just another faith and people should be free to believe what they wanted, but now she had fairly reliable evidence that Satan was not a metaphorical construct for the human propensity to sin, but rather an actual being. It made her a little less accepting of the sites, which were largely aimed at converting teenagers.

"This might be it," she said, reading: "To bring forth the anti-Christ and bathe in the glory of the Light-Bringer: The bones of a believer who has drunk the blood of an innocent must lie for a year in red earth. The hostile spirit sacrifices innocents, while the coven waits for the moon. When the time of the devil is reached, and the moon is full, the bones must lie within a pentagram of blessed candles, dusted in Lucifer's contributions to nature (see below – dried Belladonna can be ordered from the SinnersInherit Store). The blood of a goat bathes the believer, and black earth covers her. Teeth must be removed from the jaw and scattered in a circle around the region to be sacrificed to Lucifer (this must be large – the Light-bringer will take offense at a small gift, and turn on those who called him forth. The final act to bring Satan to earth must be the sacrifice of a child by one who has taken Lucifer inside himself."

"Well, that's unpleasant," said Hodgins. "You know, I bet it was someone in the government who started this. They are trying to bring Satan into Washington, after all. Maybe George W Bush, and 'cause he's pissed he's not in charge anymore..."

"If it was this one, and it might not be," Angela said, "That means that Gillian Sparrow was a devout Satan worshipper, and she murdered a virgin or maybe a kid, and drank their blood. And she looked so nice and normal! I would have been happy to have our kids in her class."

It was slightly awkward for a moment after the little slip.

"I would have been happy for her to teach our kids too, Ange," Hodgins told her seriously.

They turned back to the screen and pretended nothing had happened.

Angela's phone rang. It was Brennan.

"Sweets and I just destroyed a vengeful spirit," Brennan announced.

Well, that was a change of heart. Angela supposed it wasn't that surprising, given the events of the day, but Bren hadn't said anything about ghosts that morning, except that Dean Winchester thought Gillian Sparrow's was killing children.

"What do you mean, Sweetie?" Angela asked.

"Meet us at the diner in 15 minutes," Brennan said. She disconnected before Angela could get in the news about the plump and ordinary school teacher being a secret Satanist.

* * *

 

Brennan and Booth were at the diner when Angela and Hodgins arrived. Sweets was nowhere to be seen, which was surprising, given that Bren had said it was her and Sweets that had killed the ghost, not her and Booth. Dean and Castiel weren't there either, which was a bit disappointing, because Angela had been hoping to see them again. They were hotties, both of them, and almost certainly not insane psycho-killers. Just the thing to take her mind off what the time she had spent with Hodgins meant.

"Where's Sweets?" she asked, once all the greetings were out of the way.

"Dean and Castiel took him to fix Sam," Booth told her, looking unhappy about the situation.

Angela didn't have time to think much about it, though, because Brennan started telling her about how she and Sweets had salted and burned a tooth and it had made a ghost go up in flames, and Booth told them all about how the ghost had been taunting Sam, trying to get him to kill a little girl, and how he'd shot Sam with a tranq gun.

Hodgins looked deep in thought for a moment. "Holy crap," he said.

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sweets felt a thrill of horror mixed with a faint and deeply buried sense of satisfaction as he dropped Dean's lighter on the tooth, and heard the screams of the spirit as she burned out of existence. The tooth had been buried under a bush with pink flowers that he thought might be a rhododendron, inside a strange symbol that had been painted in the dirt. Dr Brennan had assured him that the paint was blood, but he tried not to think about that because it totally grossed him out. It had taken them a surprisingly short time to find it, given the size of the park. Dean had told them it would probably be at the base of a tree, in the same kind of position as the other one, and Dr Brennan had walked almost straight to it. Burning it was harder than it sounded, though. Dr Brennan had seemed to think it was impossible with the lighter fluid they had, but it had turned out to be some kind of super accelerant. When it had finally caught, the tooth flared up and was gone in seconds. The yelling and fighting noises stopped with the screaming.

Dr Brennan didn't even complain about destroying evidence. Much.

When Sweets and Dr Brennan (Bones, he secretly called her in his head) emerged from the bushes, Booth and Dean were both lying on the ground, breathing hard. Dean was bleeding from a cut to the forehead, and Booth – Booth just looked majorly freaked. A few yards away, Sam was slumped on the ground, unconscious. Holy crap, it was going to be hard to move him.

Castiel knelt beside Dean, and laid a hand on his forehead, gently. There was a slight glow, and the cut closed up. Sweets couldn't see clearly because of the blood, but it probably wouldn't even leave a scar. It must be awesome, having an angel around to heal you and stuff. Although, he could probably do without the angel-transport thing. His insides still didn't feel right.

Castiel turned to Sweets, fixing his serious gaze on Sweets' face. Still _crazy_ -scary.

"We have incapacitated Sam for the moment. We require your services immediately."

"We were thinking of grabbing a bite to eat if you want to join us," Booth announced. "There's a diner we go to – it's got some great pie."

Sweets stomach grumbled. He hadn't had any lunch. Pie sounded really good. And maybe some fries.

"No," said Castiel. "It is imperative that we return Sam to his senses immediately."

Dean looked torn. "Apple pie?"

"Dean."

Dean grumbled. "Fine. Can you just zap Sam to the car, then? We'll have to find somewhere to lock him up." Oh, so that was how they were going to move him. Cas had superpowers, Sweets remembered. Being an angel wasn't all praying and social awkwardness.

Cas zapped to the car with Sam, Dean and Sweets following more slowly with the ghost-fighting gear.

Booth and Bones pulled away in the SUV as Sweets opened the back door of the Impala. They were going to the diner. Sweets would kill for some food. He actually would. But instead, he was squashed into the backseat of a vintage car with and unconscious Sam Winchester sprawled across him. Dean tossed him a pack of chips. Finally.

They drove back to the FBI facility where Sam had been kept, and parked around the corner. Cas disappeared. Sweets sat in the car with Sam's head in his lap and listened to Dean munch on chips and tap the stereo along to Enter Sandman. Dean didn't speak to Sweets, seeming uncomfortable talking to him without Cas around.

"You know, a person's taste in music can tell a lot about a person. For instance, a liking of classic rock or heavy metal often stems from a feeling of loneliness or helplessness in childhood, and an inability to vocalise emotion. Victims of emotional abuse or extremely strict parents often identify with the spirit of rebellion in the music, and rocking out to it serves as a release of pent up negative emotion," Sweets told him.

Dean stuffed more chips in his mouth and turned off the radio. He didn't reply.

Awkward.

Dean's therapy session was going to be fascinating, if he could get him to talk. Dean appeared to take refuge in silence, and was obviously a master at distraction.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Sweets looked down at Sam. Sam looked young and floppy and peaceful. Almost innocent. Sweets could suddenly understand why Dean wanted to save him so much. If you'd spent your whole life looking after your little brother, seeing him like this, it would be a terrible thing to lose him, seeing him slowly slipping down a dark path. Like losing someone to drugs, but in this case the demons were literal.

"Finally," Dean said. Sweets jumped. Castiel was back in the front seat. Sweets would never get used to that.

"The guards are... taken care of."

Sweets gibbered. Castiel gave him a puzzled look.

Dean grinned. "Dude, you only say that when you've killed someone."

"I have erased the memories of every staff member. They will not notice us. We should enter through the hole Sam created. I will seal it behind us. You and the psychologist must walk. It would be difficult to carry three passengers."

Castiel placed his fingers on Sam's forehead, and they disappeared again.

A minute later, Sweets and Dean ducked under the crime scene tape. Three young policemen in pristine uniform guarded the perimeter, turning away rubberneckers, but as Sweets and Dean pushed past they merely stared through them with vacant eyes. It creeped Sweets out, just a tiny bit. They walked across the rubble and through the hole in the wall. In the white room, Sam lay on the bed once more.

Castiel waved his hand. The wall rebuilt itself behind them, rubble flying from the ground and knitting itself together so fast Sweets wasn't sure he'd even seen it.

Dean walked to his brother's side. It was time to wake Sam up.


	14. Chapter 14

When Sam opened his eyes, they were no longer black. He blinked confusedly and tried to sit up.

"Sammy? You OK?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, peering around the white room.

"Sweets is going to help you, so you won't hulk out again," Dean told him.

Sweets stepped forward. "Hi, Sam. If you just lie back and close your eyes, we're going to do something called free association, to try to find out the source of your psychological problems. I'll say a word, and you say the first thing that comes into your mind when you hear it."

"Great," Sam muttered. "A Freudian. I'm being psychoanalysed by a twelve-year-old who thinks that I want my mother to come back from the dead so I can sleep with her." Sweets chose to ignore the slight on his abilities, and just waited. Sam continued, "I don't need to be diagnosed. I already know what's wrong with me. It's that I'm evil."

"You're not evil, Sammy," Dean insisted. "Tell him!"

Sweets was a little hesitant to agree with Dean. Sam had, after all, kidnapped him and threatened to kill him. Luckily, the instruction seemed to be for Castiel. Dean was looking pointedly at his angel, and Castiel seemed to understand what Dean needed him to say.

"There is still a chance of redemption, Sam. The core of your soul remains bright and clean."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"As long as you do nothing to tarnish it, you will never be completely lost to darkness."

Sweets was of the opinion that Cas should have left out the 'completely', but the statement seemed to make Sam feel a little better.

"Please, just humour us, Sam. Let Sweets do his thing," Dean said.

"It will help your brother. He is very close to a complete nervous breakdown, and has refused to allow the psychologist to fix him until you have received help," Castiel added.

Dean looked annoyed, and opened his mouth to protest, but Sam lay back and shut his eyes, so he kept quiet.

That was interesting, another example of a Winchester placing a greater value on the well-being of their brother than their own.

"OK Sam, first word: I..." Sweets began.

"Am evil."

"You're not evil, Sam! Stop saying that!" Dean broke in.

"Dean, you must allow Dr Sweets to do his job."

"Dean..." said Sweets.

"Brother," Sam answered.

"Castiel..."

"Angel."

"Angel..."

"Lucifer."

"Lucifer..."

"Evil."

"Evil..."

"Me."

Dean let out a quiet huff of annoyance and glared at Sweets accusingly. Sweets changed tack.

"Dad..."

"Fight."

"Mom..."

"Dead."

"Dead..."

"Hell."

"Hell..."

"Dean."

It was getting fairly clear by now what the problem was. Sam's outlook on life was very negative, probably stemming from a difficult childhood involving a tumultuous relationship with his father and the death of his mother. His excessive devotion to his brother was probably the result of the extensive involvement of his brother in his upbringing. This negative bias was preventing him seeing hope in the face of the interest and manipulation of Lucifer.

"We're going to try something else, now, Sam. Stay as you are, and tell me about your childhood."

Sam was silent for a moment. "Could you be more specific?" He asked.

"Tell me your happiest memory."

Sam looked like he didn't want to say. "I don't have a happiest memory."

"You must have a happiest memory. Surely something good has happened to you in your life."

"Go on, Sam. I can take it," Dean said. Sweets looked at him – very interesting. Possibly the first time Dean had shown anything other than love and support for his brother. That look on his face was... anger. Anger and deep, deep hurt.

Sam sat up and opened his eyes. "No you can't, Dean. Remember after heaven? You said it was the worst night of your life. You threw away your amulet!"

Now they were getting somewhere. Any insight into the relationship between the brothers would be helpful. Sweets was just beginning to realise that it was hugely screwed up, and quite possibly the source of all their problems. Well, maybe not all of their problems, but the messed up relationship would definitely make them easier for evil things (like the devil) to manipulate, and not to mention the emotional toll it would have on them.Something had happened to create a rift, and Dean was desperately trying to pretend everything was fine between them. Sam seemed to think it was his fault, deepening his belief that he could not be saved from going evil. Sweets would love to write a book about this. He might have to make it a novel, though. No-one would take it seriously as an academic work.

"Well, I was kind of having a bad year, Sam. And then that night, to find out that all my little brother's best memories are my worst, and that God had completely washed his hands of the apocalypse and was leaving it for us to take care of! It kind of sucked. Sue me. With your awesome lawyer skills you were so eager to abandon your family to gain."

"I do not believe this is helping, Dean." Castiel looked at Dean. Dean tore his eyes from his brother and looked back. He backed off.

"Actually, it might help to fix your relationship if you both air your grievances. Sam, why do you think Dean won't like your memory? Why does it matter what Dean thinks?"

Sam looked shocked. "It just does. He's my brother. I don't want him to hate me."

"Why do you think Dean will hate you if you tell him your memory? It seems to me that he doesn't hate you at all."

"It's all I've done my whole life. Hurt Dean. Abandon him. All of last year and the year before, I could see the way he looked at me. Like I was deliberately going darkside just to hurt him, and like I was someone who needed saving and he couldn't, and it was breaking him. That's what I do. I break Dean."

"It takes more than a bad couple of years to break me, Sammy. And it's totally not your fault the devil chose you."

"Do you have any other people in your life, Sam?" Sweets asked. The best thing these two could do, in his professional opinion, was find some other friends. Not sever ties, but find some social support to balance out their messed up relationship.

"No. All my friends were chosen for me by Lucifer, to set me on the path to evil. Or they're dead. Or both."

"Oh," said Sweets.

"I am your friend, Sam," Cas announced.

"You are? I mean, really you're Dean's friend. You're only my friend because you want to make Dean happy. You said I was an abomination."

"That is not true, Sam. You are a very intelligent and well-intentioned person. I feel privileged to know you."

"But you don't know me, really. How many times have you actually had a conversation with me without Dean? You just show up and you and Dean do your staring thing and stand really close together and have conversations with a whole lot of inside jokes, and totally leave me out."

"Are you jealous, Sammy? Because I have a friend? What happened to 'you're antisocial, Dean, you need to make some friends'?" Dean asked, frowning.

Wow, this was getting really good. Sweets was going to have to be really careful how he handled it. He had to keep in mind the main reason he was here was to keep Sam from going all antichrist on them. This was no time to get distracted by how fascinating the interaction between two people could be. Time to divert the conversation for a little while. Sam's eyes were starting to darken, and that was never a good sign.

"Why don't we talk about what happened at the park?"

"It was part of a ritual," Sam said. "They need someone close to Lucifer to sacrifice an innocent."

Sweets was saved from having to process that by his the ringing of his cell-phone.

It was Agent Booth. "We need to speak to the Winchesters," he said.


	15. Chapter 15

Booth, Bones, Angela and Hodgins were sitting in the diner, discussing the case. to Booth's relief, the other regular patrons of the diner were accustomed to Brennan's fondness for discussing dead bodies at mealtimes, as well as Dr Hodgins' enthusiasm for maggots. They had chosen to give the team plenty of space, so as to not be put off their meals, and therefore nobody had yet called the FBI and reported him as insane.

Bones was describing the Satanist sub-culture of modern North America with surprising and somewhat unnerving enthusiasm. She was quite willing to accept Angela and Hodgins' theory that Gillian Sparrow had been the first sacrifice in a Satanist ritual to bring Lucifer forth to walk the earth. More willing than Booth, even, because Booth had to push past the disbelief that people would actually want Lucifer walking the earth, and Bones just assumed that the cult or coven or whatever hadn't thought it would really work. But Booth had to admit that when he listened to the description of the ritual and ignored Hodgins' theories about government conspiracies, it did sound likely. They would have to call the Winchesters back, though. This was definitely not Booth's area of expertise.

Sweets sounded a little relieved when Booth asked to speak to the Winchesters. It didn't sound like the therapy session was going well. He could hear raised voices in the background. Sweets passed the phone to Dean, who told Booth they would meet him at the diner in fifteen minutes. He sounded annoyed. Great. They were all coming.

The bell over the door jangled as Dean Winchester entered, followed by his brother, his angel, and Sweets. A heavy feeling of foreboding settled in Booth's stomach. This was not going to turn out well. Bones accepted vengeful spirits. She accepted satanic cults performing rituals to raise Lucifer. She would not, however, acknowledge that God existed. She was planning to ask Castiel to prove that a) he was an angel, and b) God was real. Booth did not want to be in the room for that conversation. As much as Bones annoyed him sometimes, with her stubborn refusal to see beyond what she could see proof of, he was pretty sure he was in love with her, and he really didn't want her to get smote. He wasn't sure if his being in the room for that would help. Castiel didn't seem to like him much, and he didn't really know why.

Bones thankfully refrained from opening with her demand for proof. She couldn't get a word in edgeways – the Winchesters and Castiel were having a heated discussion. Sweets was following with a panicked look on his face. One that said _Omigod I asked the wrong question and now the world is going to end..._

Sam's irises were dark, with a little white showing around the edges. He looked less terrifying now, but no more friendly. He was saying sulkily to Castiel: "If we were both dying horribly and you could only save one of us, who would it be?"

Castiel replied immediately. "Dean," he said. No hesitation at all. Ouch.

Sam turned to Sweets and said: "See?"

Sweets looked like he was about to have a panic attack.

As they made their way over to the booth where Booth and the squints sat, Dean was hissing at Castiel, "Dude, you aren't meant to tell him that." But there was a tiny smile on his face that no one was meant to see.

Booth cleared his throat. Sweets looked relieved.

Angela told them about the ritual she and Hodgins had found on the internet. Sweets stopped looking relieved and started turning pale.

"Any idea who arranged it?" Dean asked.

Booth shook his head. "We were thinking we should investigate that side of the case, while you find and destroy the teeth... that should stop it happening, shouldn't it?"

"We need the teeth as evidence, Booth," Bones protested, but Sam interrupted.

"It's the only way to stop the spirit killing more kids. There's more to this ritual than just what it says in the description. Something's binding the spirit to a number of separate locations. Someone needs to do more research. Maybe I should..."

"I don't think... ah... it might not be the best..." Sweets stammered, obviously trying to figure out how to tell Sam he shouldn't without offending him.

"It would be detrimental to our cause if you were to research Satan on the internet at this stage, Sam," said Castiel.

"Well what can I do? I obviously can't go with you guys to burn the teeth, the spirit is trying to get me to kill children... and I can't go with them," Sam gestured at the Squints. "They're terrified of me and I've already tried to kill two of them. Maybe I am just..."

"SAM! YOU ARE NOT EVIL!" Dean shouted. The people at the next three tables looked up.

In the end it was arranged that Booth and Bones would investigate Gillian Sparrow's personal life for clues into who had set up the ritual, on the condition that they wore anti-possession charms, carried holy water, and called Dean immediately if they smelled sulphur or saw someone flinch at the invocation of Christ.

Angela and Hodgins would research the ritual more thoroughly, and call both Dean and Booth the second they found anything. Dean had tried to send Sweets with them too, but Castiel had stopped him, saying: "He must stay with us. We need him to help Sam."

"Bang up job so far," Dean had muttered, but he had let Sweets stay with them.

The Winchesters were going to call someone named Bobby, who apparently knew everything there was to know about... well, everything, and then try to further disturb the ritual. But first they were going to eat pie, because reversing Satanic magic was not something you could do on an empty stomach, and anyway, you couldn't just come into a diner and not eat anything.

* * *

 

Gillian Sparrow had no family. Her neighbours said she had been quiet and friendly, and had never done anything objectionable. They had never heard strange chanting, screams, or anything out of the ordinary coming from the house. There were no smells of sulphur, or anything else (the neighbour had looked concerned at that question, asking if there was something wrong with gas main). She occasionally hosted afternoon teas for the teachers from the small private school where she taught, complete with home baking. No one else was ever invited to those, though – when one of the neighbours had shown up in the middle of one to borrow a cup of sugar, she had been dismissed pretty quickly. Gillian hadn't been rude about it though, she'd even promised to bring leftover baking around later.

Crap, the school. Nothing had shown up in the first sweep after Ms. Sparrow's body had been identified, but according to Bones, Satanists loved their secrets rooms. They would have to search it again.

Booth was suddenly very glad he had sent Parker to public school.

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

The school was the most likely place for a satanic cult to perform blood sacrifices. If Brennan was writing a book and the teachers were performing satanic rituals, they would use the chemistry lab. It would be easy to clean and no one would give it a second thought if there were odd smells and residues the following day. The Nicholas Academy, where the victim had taught, was an expensive private school that prided itself on introducing children to science at a young age, and had a large science lab.

Examining the lab would have to wait for the following day, though. It was late when Brennan and Booth finished interviewing the victim's neighbours, and they would not be able to enter without a search warrant, which they wouldn't get because they had no real evidence that led them to the school. Instead, they would spend the evening questioning those of Gillian Sparrow's colleagues that her neighbours identified as attending her 'tea parties'.

The first person they questioned was a pleasant young woman who taught third grade. She answered all their questions easily and comfortably, seeming undisturbed by a late night visit by the FBI. Yes, she had been to Mrs Sparrow's afternoon teas. The staff of the school were a tight-knit group; they all hosted afternoon teas occasionally. They were sort of informal staff meetings, simply to discuss classes and the students, and to socialise. No, she hadn't noticed any strange behaviour.

"Do you think she seemed a little too ordinary? Too nice?" Booth asked Brennan as they walked back to the car.

"I certainly would not have been that happy about a visit by the FBI at this time of night," she replied. She knew she wasn't very good at reading people. If Booth hadn't mentioned it, she wouldn't have noticed. Now that he had, she was sure the woman's behaviour was suspicious. She looked back. The curtains were pulled across the living room windows, the indistinct shadow of the teacher cast on it by the bright light of the room. She was pacing. It almost looked like she was on a phone, but the shadow wasn't clear enough to tell.

Booth thought she was. "Probably warning the rest of them," he said.

* * *

 

She had been. The next two teachers they visited gave them exactly the same information, and did it with large false smiles.

It was interesting. All of the study Brennan had done into the Satanist subculture of modern North America (which admittedly wasn't much compared to her other areas of study) had indicated that people who took up Satanism were usually young adults from the fringes of society, forced into the subculture because of an inability to adapt to the mainstream culture of America. These people did not fit the pattern at all. They were wealthy and appeared conservative. They had steady jobs and families. And yet they had fallen into the sub-culture so deeply that it had led them to murder, or at least be parties to murder. It was inexcusable. Murder always was.

Their final visit of the night was to the home of Mr Nicholas, the principal of the school. The house was large, and the lawn was unnaturally green, even in the dark. Booth rang the bell.

Mr Nicholas was in his late fifties. He wore glasses, and carried some extra weight around his waist. He was wearing striped silk pyjamas. He was very understanding when he saw Booth's badge, apologising for his attire – he had been about to go to bed - and inviting them in.

Brennan and Booth followed him into the living room. Booth seemed tense. She had learnt to read him over the years she had been his partner, and could understand his body language better than anyone else's. He was concerned. He doubted the wisdom of entering the house. Booth must be able to see something in Mr Nicholas that Brennan couldn't, because he did not seem very dangerous to her.

As they entered the living room, they were hit by the overpowering smell of sulphur. Booth surreptitiously handed her his phone. The screen said 'Dean', ready for her to hit the talk button and dial Dean Winchester's number immediately.

What had Dean said? "If you smell sulphur, see someone flinch at the name of Christ, or see someone with black eyes, call me and let it ring. Cas will come help you."

Brennan still had private doubts about Cas. She knew that Booth was thoroughly convinced he was an angel of the Lord, but so far he had done nothing to show that he was one. He could appear and disappear out of thin air, but there was no telling what Supernatural creatures could do that. She could think of at least seven cultures that had myths or lore involving creatures that appeared and disappeared from nowhere. There was no proof that he was an angel, and there was no proof that there was a God. She drifted her thumb over the green button on Booth's phone anyway.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions concerning the death of Gillian Sparrow," Booth began. His hand drifted across his chest to where his gun lay in its shoulder holster.

"You should have left this alone, Agent Booth," Mr Nicholas replied, and his eyes shuttered into blackness.

Brennan pressed the button.

"We just want to fix the world, Booth. Is that so much to ask?" Mr Nicholas began to advance on Booth.

Booth reached for his gun.

"Really, a gun?" The black-eyed principal waved his hand and smiled as Booth's gun skittered across the room. Booth stood his ground and said something in Latin.

Mr Nicholas flinched, but continued: "It's people like you who are ruining the world, Agent Booth. So close-minded. What makes you so sure that God is the Good guy? Just because your bible tells you... Who do you think wrote those books?"

What had Dean said? Salt? Holy water? Right. Brennan had taken the liberty of filling the tank of a water pistol with the water in the small flask Dean had given her. She drew it.

Booth was still praying in Latin. The demon seemed to want to draw this out.

"You're full of problems, aren't you Booth. No Dean Winchester, but still... all that guilt... the things people do for their country. How many people have you killed, Booth? Why is it OK for you to kill but not for others?"

"That was different," Booth growled, "It was war. It was the only way to protect my country."

"And all that unrequited love... just pining away for your pretty little professor here, and she doesn't even see it. Pathetic, Booth. Maybe I'll just kill her instead. That would be worse for you than your own death, wouldn't?"

The demon turned to her and stepped closer. Brennan fired the water pistol directly at his face.

"Run, Bones!" Booth shouted, as the demon's skin smoked and blistered. They ran.

The door was blocked by two larger demons, black eyes glaring.

They turned to the window. A grey cat stood on the window seat, hissing and arching its back. Its eyes were filled with red.

Brennan and Booth looked around frantically for an exit. The pug that had been snoring gently on the sofa when they entered was up and snarling, eyes as red as the cat's.

To borrow a phrase from Sweets, they were totally screwed.

"Why even bother, Temperance?" The Mr Nicholas demon addressed her.

An invisible force hit her, flinging her across the room and into the wall. It held her against the wall so tightly she couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. Booth was next to her, but she couldn't even turn her head to look at him.

If she got out of this, she promised herself, she was going to take a chance with Booth. Maybe it wouldn't ruin their friendship. Maybe he wouldn't hurt her. Maybe she wouldn't hurt him. She wished she'd told him sooner. Realised sooner.

The demons crowded inward.

The lights flickered, and the demons seemed to freeze. A sudden wind battered the house. The light bulbs burst. The whole air seemed charged with electricity.

Castiel was there. "I apologise for my lateness," he said, "There was an emergency. I was detained." And then: "Close your eyes."

Brennan did.


	17. Chapter 17

The light hurt even through closed eyes. There was a burning pain, and the darkness turned red behind her closed lids. Warm liquid oozed from her eye-sockets. She didn't think it was tears. And the sound – it was terrible, loud, and long, and her ears hurt so much it distracted from the pain in her eyes. Blood was dripping down her neck. She couldn't even move to cover her ears with her hands.

And then the pressure that held her in place was gone, and she was slumping to the floor, hands over ears, curled into a ball. Tiny shards of shattered glass sprayed into her back. She stayed like that for endless minutes.

The noise stopped first, replaced by a silence she could hardly make out behind the ringing of her ears. Darkness fell again suddenly, leaving her with spots of red inside her eyelids and a lingering burning sensation. She stayed as she was.

When she finally opened her eyes, they were sticky. She had to wipe them, and her hand came away red with blood. She looked up, and Castiel was standing over her, saying something inaudible above the ringing of her ears. His trench coat was billowing and his hair stood wildly on end, and a light seemed to be coming from him, making him stand out from the darkness of the room. He seemed angry and powerful, and suddenly she was terrified of him.

Booth was beside her. He was kneeling, head bowed in prayer, hands trembling. He was praying out loud, but she couldn't hear his voice. Dark liquid ran from his ears, too, and she knew it was blood even though the red didn't show up in the darkness. Brennan felt a surge of protectiveness run through her, and closed the gap between them, taking his hand.

Booth squeezed her hand, sparing her a wide-eyed look before returning to his prayer. She still couldn't hear him, but she knew he was including her now.

There was a flash of lightning, and wind buffeted the house. The night had been clear when they had entered the house, and the sudden storm frightened her. Whether Castiel was an angel or not, he was powerful enough to affect the weather. The lightning lit up the room for an instant, and Brennan wished it hadn't. The broken bodies of the men and animals that had blocked their exit were strewn amongst shattered glass and overturned furniture. She crept closer to Booth.

Castiel said something else, and she still couldn't hear him, even though the ringing in her ears was diminishing to a dull whine. She shrank back as he reached a hand towards her forehead, and one towards Booth.

* * *

 

The next time she opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor of what smelled like a cheap motel room. Dean Winchester was looking down at her. His eyes were very green. Not as comforting as brown, she thought, and reached her hand out to feel for Booth.

"Cas busted out the true form, huh?" Dean said, and Brennan was so pleased to be able to hear again she almost hugged him.

"What _was_ that?" She asked, sitting up.

"The Cas you see, the one with the trench coat and the blue eyes, that's his human vessel. Jimmy's gone now, Cas just takes his form because we're used to it. He's more powerful in his true form, with the light and the..." Dean waved his hands around, "Don't worry, your ears will recover."

Dean helped her over to the bed. He had a painful-looking abrasion over his cheekbone, and was favouring his left side, indicating cracked ribs. She was starting to think he might not be such a bad guy after all.

"I didn't believe he was an angel either," Dean told her.

Brennan looked at him in surprise. She hadn't been aware she was so obvious about her disbelief. She had been trying to hide it around them, not because she doubted herself or was afraid to give her opinion, but because Dean and Castiel both clearly believed that Castiel was an angel.

"He stabbed me," Castiel said, and the light within him seemed to have faded so that he seemed like a slightly crazy human in a trench coat again.

"Really? How did he prove he was an angel?" Brennan asked Dean, mostly because she didn't know how to respond to Castiel's comment.

"Belief creeps up on you," Dean said, and turned to check on Booth.

Booth was still praying, lying on the bed Sweets had helped him to. He was staring at Castiel in awe-struck wonder, murmuring under his breath.

Brennan wasn't sure what the expression on Castiel's face was, but if she could pick one it would be a mixture of smugness and annoyance.

"Dude, you can stop praying now. You're pissing Cas off." Dean told him.

Booth looked horrified. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"You know when someone sucks up to you and it's cool at first, but then they keep doing it all the time every time they see you... shades of that."

Booth sat up, looking like he was about to apologise, and then changing his mind. It caused a little ache in her chest to see Booth so unsure of himself. He usually was so confident. It must be hard for him, she thought, to see something that claimed to be a being he believed in with all his heart, and have it not fit the template in his mind.

"So what was this emergency Castiel mentioned? Is everyone OK?" Booth finally settled on asking.

"We're fine. Sam just had a little freak out when the spirit touched him," Dean said, gesturing to his brother, who appeared to be fast asleep on the floor.

Sweets made a strangled noise in his throat.

"Your shrink is tougher than he looks," Dean continued, "Surprisingly good with a crow bar."

Sweets was unusually pale and had a large bruise forming on his jaw. "It was pretty sweet, if I do say so myself," he said gamely.

* * *

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

After Booth and Brennan had left the diner to interview suspects, the Winchesters, Castiel and Sweets had remained in the diner to form a plan of attack.

The atmosphere was tense. Angela and Hodgins made their excuses pretty quickly, and almost ran out in their hurry to escape. Sweets was left in a diner booth with a sulking anti-Christ, an annoyed angel, and a very tense Dean Winchester. Castiel was looking at looking at Sweets sternly, and Sweets was pretty sure that the look meant _you are meant to be fixing my friend – so fix him._ Only in a more threatening way than that. Sweets had a sudden, unwelcome vision of himself exploding in a cloud of pink mist.

Dean broke the silence. "I'm going to call Bobby," he said, "And by the time I get back, Sam will have apologised to Cas for being angry that Cas likes me better than him, and Cas will have stopped thinking about smiting the shrink. And _Dr_ Sweets, here, will have found a way to fix Sam so he won't hulk out while we're icing this bitch." He looked at them sternly and slid out of the Booth, pulling out his cell phone.

 _Right_ , thought Sweets. _OK. I can fix this. Not. Crap._

"Why does it upset you that Castiel is closer to Dean than you, Sam?" Sweets asked, hoping desperately that this line of questioning would lead to Sam's understanding of his own emotions and self deepening, rather than the other option: a full scale, black-eyed, murderous demonic freak-out in the middle of the Royal Diner.

"Why are you picking on me about being too dependent on Dean? If you want to see someone co-dependent, just look at Cas! Dean's not even nice to him, and he still follows him around like a stalker-puppy! Castiel's obsessed. He used to stand in our motel room and watch Dean sleep. He died for Dean. _Twice._ "

Sweets was astounded at the degree to which a part-demon ginormatron who had spent his whole life being manipulated into doing Lucifer's bidding could look like a five-year-old who had just been told he couldn't have a kitten.

Also, watching someone sleep? That was kind of creepy. But no, Sam was deflecting.

"OK, Sam. If you feel like I'm picking on you, I'll alternate. You answer one question, Castiel answers one. Castiel – tell me about Dean. What is it about him that makes you care so deeply?"

Castiel glared at him. Apparently therapy was necessary for others but he objected strongly to it for himself. He glanced over in the direction that Dean had walked.

"Dean has had a difficult life, but even in hell his soul shone brightly. He is the best example of humanity I have ever met."

"How many humans have you met, Cas? I mean actually had a conversation with?" Sam asked.

"Several," said Castiel, defensively.

"OK..." said Sweets, "Sam's turn. Sam, why does it trouble you that Castiel cares so strongly for Dean?"

"It used to just be me and Dean. Brothers. Best friends. Then he went to hell, and he came back and everything had changed. He looked at me different. And he kept telling me I was making the wrong choices; I trusted the wrong people, that I was going evil. I didn't listen to him. I was trying to help, and I felt like he kept talking about what Cas said. And then he was right. I started the apocalypse and Dean gave Cas his amulet, and we split up and he started hanging out with Cas more. He only took me back because he thought I'd give in to Lucifer if he didn't. Sometimes I think he doesn't even like me anymore."

"But you know that isn't true, Sam," Sweets told him. "Dean obviously still cares very deeply about you, and he truly believes that you aren't evil. Otherwise he would not be going to all this effort to help you. It is good for you to have separate friends. It means you won't be focusing all of your attention on each other, so you are less likely to smother each other."

Sam nodded slowly, thinking it through. The white around his irises was widening, the black irises fading to hazel. Sweets let out a sigh of relief.

Dean came back just as Sweets was about to ask Castiel his next question. Bobby had told him that there was probably a binding symbol carved into the base of the tree the tooth lay under at every place in the circle. They would probably have to burn all of the symbols as well as the teeth before the spirit could be permanently laid to rest.

"Let's go," Dean said, and Sweets resigned himself to continuing the session later. Sam was alright for now, anyway.

* * *

 

Sweets had assumed that the teeth that had been scattered in a circle all around the city would all be in public places. Parks and such. Turned out he was wrong. Dean had come back from his phone call holding a map of D.C., the pattern of the ritual marked on it in red. The circle was perfectly even, the space between the sites of the ritual exactly measured. Turned out the next one was right in the middle of someone's backyard.

He didn't like creeping into people's backyards in the middle of the night, Sweets decided. It made him feel like a criminal. Not that it was actually the middle of the night. It was dark, though, and all the lights were off in the house. Either the inhabitants were already in bed, or they were out. Sweets was hoping for out. Out and not coming back tonight.

It was simple – find a poisonous tree with a tooth under it. Salt and burn the tooth. Salt and burn the tree. Make sure the house doesn't catch on fire. Move on to the next spot in the circle. And all the time, watch out for the spirit of Gillian Sparrow and don't let Sam go evil. Awesome. That would be easy.

And it would have been, if it weren't for the neighbours.

They found the tooth relatively easily. It was at the base of a Belladonna bush – at least, that's what Sam said it was, and it concerned Sweets slightly, because, as Dean said, who the hell grows Deadly Nightshade in their garden. In the beam of Dean's flashlight, a small symbol could clearly be seen carved into the thick central stem of the plant.

So, it was all good. Sweets even got to pour salt on the tooth. And then two things happened.

From across the fence, a voice asked roughly: "What the hell are you doing in Jackie and Steve's yard?"

At the same time, the air got very, very cold.

"Light it, damn it!" Dean ordered, throwing his lighter to Sweets.

"I'm calling the police!" said the neighbour.

The ghost of Gillian Sparrow flickered into being behind Sam.

"I am warning you, I have a gun," said the neighbour.

"So do I," said Dean, firing rock salt at the spirit.

The spirit dissipated, reappearing a short distance away. "Join us, Sam. Let your true nature shine through. The angel was lying. Your soul is black. You cannot escape it."

The voice sounded like wind rushing through a tunnel. If Sweets had not already been trembling, it would have made him shiver.

"What's going on?" Another voice came from the fence on the other side of the yard.

"Burn the damn tooth, Sweets!" Dean shouted.

The neighbours were climbing over the fences into the yard, and it wasn't just the two of them now. There were at least six, and more coming from the back of the yard.

"Stop them," one of the dark shadows commanded. "The ritual must not be disrupted."

And then Sweets was being clocked over the head by someone hard and heavy and metallic.

When he woke up, Dean had lost his gun, and was locked in furious hand-to-hand combat with two solid silhouettes. Castiel was whirling around, laying fingers to foreheads, sending people slumping to the ground. The spirit was closing in on Sam.

Sam was slashing at it with an iron bar, but it kept flickering just out of reach, all the time whispering to him in that awful wind-tunnel voice.

"No," Sam was repeating, over and over. "No, I won't. I am not evil. I am not evil. I am not..."

Even as Sweets reached for the crowbar that lay just out of his reach, beside the unconscious body of one of the neighbours, he saw the ghost dart inside Sam's range, and shove a hand into his chest.

Sweets couldn't see Sam's eyes in the dark, but he was willing to bet they had just gone black.

Dean's cell phone began to ring.

Sam growled and moved his hand in a swiping motion. All of the neighbours left standing flew across the yard and slammed heavily into the ground. Sam stepped forward, pulling out a knife. The blade glinted in the moonlight.

"Christ! Where did he get that? Stop him Cas!" Dean shouted, rolling to his feet from where he had fallen during his fight.

Dean ran over to where Sweets was lying. "Lighter," he demanded.

Sweets handed it over to him. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the crowbar.

Castiel was standing between Sam and the unconscious figure of one of the men who had been fighting Dean. "I don't want to hurt you, Sam. Put the knife down," he said.

But Gillian Sparrow was still beside Sam, whispering to him.

"Why did I ever think things could go back to the way they were? Why should I even fight this? There is nothing left for me here. But this darkness... it makes me strong. You have no idea how good it feels..." Sam was saying.

"You cannot harm me, Sam. I have... gone up a pay-grade. Several, in fact. Stand down."

Sweets crept up behind Sam, trying to ignore the fear that fluttered inside him. He could feel acid bubbling inside his stomach. The spirit was right there. If he could just make her disappear for a few seconds, maybe she would lose her grip on Sam. Maybe Sam would see through the whispers, and remember how he had been feeling before they had come, the progress he had been making.

Sweets lifted the iron crow bar over his head and swung with all his strength. The bar tore through the ghost, ripping her apart, and landed with a nasty crunch on the back of Sam Winchester's head. Sam crumpled to the ground, knife falling from his hand.

Sweets looked in horror at what he had done. His heart was in his mouth, and he felt horribly sick. The crowbar slipped from his hand.

"He is not dead," Castiel told him, laying a hand on Sam's head. There was a glow of light, and Sam groaned, trying to move. Castiel placed two fingers on his forehead. "Go to sleep, Sam," he said.

A bright, red glow came from the other side of the yard, where Dean stood beside the burning Belladonna bush. The newly re-formed ghost of Gillian Sparrow shrieked and exploded in a rush of flames.

"I must go," Castiel said, and disappeared.

* * *

 

By the time they finally made it back to Dean's motel, Sweets wanted nothing more than to sleep for a hundred years, but he couldn't. Not until he knew Booth and Brennan were alright.


	19. Chapter 19

"...Friggin' neighbourhood watch. Whoever's organising this has probably got minions planted around every one of those sites," Dean was saying. He had kindly left out the bit of the story where the knocking-out of Sam had been an accident. Maybe he didn't realise it was. All the same, Sweets was glad he had. He was almost sure there was a newfound respect in Booth's gaze. He had finally been a hero, and even though it scared the crap out of him, it was a good feeling.

They went to bed shortly after that, bunking down wherever they would fit. Dr Brennan and Agent Booth lay together in one bed, for once not even pretending they didn't want to. The other bed was harder to sort out. Dean objected strongly to sharing with Sweets, but under Castiel's pointed stare he caved and just mumbled at Sweets to keep his hands to himself. Castiel stood at the foot of Dean's bed and waited.

Before exhaustion dragged him into sleep, Sweets had two thoughts. The first was that he should probably call Daisy in the morning, and the second was that Sam had been right about the Castiel-watching-Dean-sleep thing. It was creepy.

He was woken by something sharp slamming into his ribcage. His first thought was that they were being attacked, and he fumbled for the salt on the bedside table. Then he heard the harsh, quick breaths coming from the man next to him, and realised it had been an elbow.

Dean thrashed again. "No... No... NO!"

Sweets reached to flick the switch of the bedside lamp, but then Castiel was beside Dean, placing his fingers on his forehead.

"Rest, Dean."

Dean lay still and breathed easily.

Nightmares. Bad ones, by the sounds of things. Maybe Cas was right about PTSD. No wonder Dean looked so tired all the time, if this was what happened every time he closed his eyes.

"You too, Dr Sweets," Castiel told him quietly, and he felt a deep and restful sleep wash over him. He dreamed about fishing, and never had to bait a hook or see a dead fish.

* * *

 

Sweets awoke refreshed. Turned out there was something to be said for having an angel watching over you as you slept, even if it was only by virtue of being in the same bed as the person the angel was really watching over. Sitting up and looking around, he saw Booth and Brennan wrapped around each other in the next bed and Sam Winchester at the table with his laptop. Dean and Cas were nowhere to be seen. Sweets tried to pretend he wasn't nervous about being in the same room as Sam without his brother and failed miserably. Even without the black eyes and throbbing neck veins, Sam was pretty imposing. And Sweets _had_ knocked him out with a crowbar the night before.

He didn't have to wait long, though. Dean and Cas turned up with breakfast soon enough. Dean looked much better than he had the previous day. The nightmare-free sleep must have been as good for him as it had been for Sweets. He looked less troubled and even smiled a little at something Cas said, but the look was still there in his eyes. Sweets couldn't remember the last person he had wanted to help this much.

Breakfast was interrupted by a call from Angela and Hodgins, who seemed not to realise that 8AM might be a little early to stomach talking about ritual blood sacrifices. Of course, they hadn't spent most of the night fighting off demons or Satan-worshippers. They had just been doing research (and wasn't it interesting that they were together at 8aAM?), and had found something they thought might be important.

The ritual required five hundred worshippers.

The school was probably a good place to start. Booth said he was willing to bet that those kids were being brainwashed to follow Satan.

* * *

 

Sweets hardly got a chance to finish his breakfast before he was being dragged off to burn stuff. They were going to destroy the tooth and symbol at as many sites as they could fit in today, doing the ones in relative seclusion during the day, and the ones in people's backyards and inside office buildings at night. They needed to hurry, Dean insisted. At the rate they were going it was going to take a month, and they didn't have that kind of time.

There had been an awkward moment after that. Sam had taken it the wrong way and made a sort of tense, annoyed face. If Sweets wasn't such a professional, and so afraid of Sam, he would have called it 'pissy'. Sam didn't say anything, but there was a silent conversation between the brothers, ending with a tiny shrug from Dean which seemed to mean 'I'm sorry'. When Sweets finally got to his therapy session with Dean, the first thing they were going to talk about was how to use his words to express his feelings.

They left Booth and Bones to investigate the school, and drove away to the first site of the day in Dean's sweet car.

Sweets couldn't help noticing that Booth's hand lingered in the small of Dr Brennan's back as they said their goodbyes.

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon and they had destroyed teeth at two locations before Sweets had the chance to talk to Dean alone. Dean was pouring lighter fluid and salt over the tooth they had found under a Yew tree in a small wooded area, while Sweets guarded his back with his iron crowbar, and Sam stood some distance away, Castiel beside him with a sawn-off loaded with salt.

"Do you get nightmares like that often?" Sweets asked casually.

"Is this really a good time for a heart-to-heart?" Dean asked, tipping gasoline on the trunk of the yew.

Sweets swung the crowbar through the flickering figure of Gillian Sparrow.

"It sounded really bad, and you elbowed me in the ribs. I need to know if I should warn people not to share a bed with you," Sweets tried to make it come out jokingly. "But seriously, does that happen every night? That can't be pleasant. I can help you with it, if you just talk to me."

"Talking about it's not gonna make it go away. Nothing can make it go away," Dean said, "And no, it's not every night. Some nights I don't sleep." He lit a match with unnecessary force, and dropped it onto the tooth. Flames leapt up, and the now familiar shrieking of the ghost burning up came from behind them.

Dean stared, transfixed, as the flames spread to the tree.

Castiel appeared beside them. "Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan require our assistance," he announced.


	20. Chapter 20

Booth had woken up with Bones in his arms and it had felt good, even if it was just the result of an extremely stressful situation and a motel room with too few beds. Booth had seen Sweets give him that look when they had been making the sleeping arrangements, and yeah, maybe he had come across as a little overeager to share with Bones, but she wouldn't be comfortable sharing a bed with Sweets, and she sure as hell wasn't sleeping with Dean. There were stories within the FBI about this guy and how he thought he was God's gift to women. Worryingly, it seemed like Dean really might be God's gift. Maybe not just to women, maybe to everyone. But even if that was true, Booth didn't want him in the same bed as Bones. She'd already explained in great detail why Dean was physically attractive – something about symmetry and shoulder-to-hip ratio. But it had all ended fine. Bones hadn't even objected when he had put his arms around her in the night.

Now it was back to reality, though. Booth laughed. He never thought he'd say that about investigating a school for signs of a demonic ritual to raise Satan. They said goodbye to the others and headed off to the school.

They were greeted at the office by a friendly grey-haired woman, who offered them tea while they waited to speak to the acting principal. Booth politely declined. It was probably poisoned.

The wait was short. The grey-haired lady waved them into the principal's office. Inside, behind the desk, sat a businesslike woman of forty or so. She was remarkably calm considering the violent death of the principal the night before. She introduced herself as Ms Keppler.

"I suppose you've come about Mr Nicholas?" she asked, "Terrible. Just terrible." She didn't look particularly upset.

"We would like to take a look around the school," Booth told her.

She nodded slowly. "I would prefer you didn't disrupt the children. Some of them have taken the death of their Principal hard. He was well liked."

"We understand. We'll do our best. If you don't mind, we'd like to start here."

"There is about to be a memorial assembly for Mr Nicholas in the auditorium if you would like to attend."

"We'd rather not," Bones said. Booth elbowed her subtly.

"Of course we'll attend," he said.

As they followed the replacement principal to the auditorium, Bones whispered loudly, "You know they're trying to distract us so they can hide the evidence, don't you?"

"I know, Bones," Booth replied.

If he hadn't already thought that Ms Keppler was evil, the look she gave him now would have done the trick.

The auditorium was silent when they entered. There were three hundred children in it, ranging in age from five to twelve, and not one of them was speaking. They weren't even fidgeting. It was unnatural. When Ms Keppler greeted them, she was immediately met with an enthusiastic "Good Morning, Ms Keppler", spoken in perfect unison by three hundred young voices. Booth was hit with a sudden image of choruses of "Heil, Hitler!" ringing out from ranks of teenage Nazis.

Bones nudged him, and was about to begin a long explanation of the anthropological significance of brainwashing, but the room fell silent once more and Booth had to shush her.

The doors swung shut.

Ms Keppler began her speech. "We have lost one of our number," she said. "The loss was a terrible thing. Mr Nicholas was a faithful man, an excellent teacher, and was cut down before he could finish his mission to bring about change to the world."

Bring about change by attempting to raise Lucifer from hell. What a great guy.

"We must continue his work. The rising will be in eight days, and we must be ready, children. Have you been rehearsing your part?"

Booth was starting to realise just how much trouble they were in. What had he been thinking, coming in here? They had definitely not thought this through properly, and now they were locked in an auditorium with three hundred brainwashed Satan-worshipping children, at least twelve Satanist teachers, and probably some demons.

The children were chanting something in a language that wasn't quite Latin.

"Booth," said Bones, "We need to get out of here. Now."

They sidled towards the exit. A large, muscular man blocked their path.

The chanting stopped.

"Children, we have some of those who do not believe in the righteous path of the Light-bringer with us. Agent Booth, Dr Brennan, why don't you join me on stage."

There was nothing they could do but climb up the steps to the stage.

Ms Keppler spoke directly to Booth, and her eyes were black. "You are disappointed, aren't you Booth? The soldier of heaven did not meet your expectations. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Heaven does not care about you. Heaven doesn't care about anyone. The hosts are too busy infighting and searching for their absent father to bother with the mud-monkeys. But our master, he knows human failings, flaws, and he will reward those who are faithful. He's not what your precious bible makes him out to be... he just understands that sometimes people want to have fun."

Booth glared at her. Suddenly, the small flask of holy water he carried did not seem enough.

"Take them to the chemistry lab," Ms Keppler ordered, "Their blood will be useful for restoring the ritual."

* * *

 

Four teachers manhandled Booth and Bones to the chemistry lab. It was clean and gleaming, with white fittings and a demonstration table at the front. Booth twisted out of the holds of his captors as they dragged him over to the table. He landed a strong right hook on the jaw of the smaller one, who staggered backwards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his partner slam her knee into the groin of one of the men who held her. Excellent. Booth reached for his flask of holy water and twisted off the lid, all the while holding off his attackers with legs and elbows. He flung the water in the face of the closest man. The man hardly blinked.

Not a demon. Booth wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He pulled out his gun.

"Do it Booth, shoot me," the teacher said. "How many people have you killed? Satan will love you."

Booth hesitated. "Don't listen to him, Booth! Shoot the bastard!" Bones yelled.

Booth pulled the trigger.

The man dropped, but there was someone behind him now. Booth only saw a shadow before something heavy connected with the back of his head.

When he came to, he was splayed on the demonstration table, handcuffed to it by wrists and ankles. On the next table over, Bones was in a similar position. She was speaking. When the words finally made it through his addled mind, he realised she was praying. Praying to Castiel.

* * *

 


	21. Chapter 21

They just left him there. Left him on his own with Sam, while they went off to help Booth and Brennan. It was an emergency, Castiel said, and he and Dean had to go _right now_. He couldn't carry three, and they couldn't leave Sam on his own. Castiel had zapped off with Dean before Sweets had time to argue, and now Sweets was left alone with Sam, all the way across the city from home, and he was under no circumstances allowed to drive Dean's car. Awesome. Sweets would have suspected it was a sneaky way for Cas to get Dean alone, except that he'd said it was Dr Brennan praying, and Brennan still didn't believe in God and angels, even after the events of the past two days. It would take something seriously bad to get her to pray.

"So..." said Sam, awkwardly.

"So..." said Sweets.

"We should just stay here, then. Dean said we should stay here and wait for them."

"Yeah, we should stay here."

There was a pause.

"I don't feel very helpful," Sweets said.

"Me neither. I don't think this is helping me believe in my value to the team," Sam said.

"It's very important that you understand what a valuable contribution you make, and that you can really want to help humanity. If you remember that, it will help the next time you feel yourself slipping away."

"Dean never said I couldn't drive his car..." Sam trailed off.

And that's how Sweets came to be sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, examining the map, while Sam followed his directions.

The nearest tooth was inside an office building. Sam vetoed that on the grounds that all the cubicle drones would be either brainwashed into Satanism or just really, really bored and extremely enthusiastic about expelling intruders from their place of work, particularly if those intruders were messing with their pot plants.

They went to someone's backyard instead.

Sweets couldn't help feeling a little nervous as he watched Sam expertly load the shotgun. He looked around jumpily. He really hoped there were no police around.

"We usually do this at night," Sam said, handing him his trusty crowbar and a can of gasoline. "If anyone questions you, we're in pest control and home maintenance."

They walked around the back of the house. There was an elderly lady attacking a flower bed heartily with a trowel. Sam hastily hid the shotgun behind him as she looked up.

"Who are you?" The woman asked suspiciously.

"Pest control, ma'am," Sweets told her.

"I didn't call an exterminator. You're here to rob me, aren't you? Well, I've got nothing to steal."

"This is 184 Wiltshire, isn't it?" Sam asked.

"Get out before I call the police."

They left.

"We got the wrong place?" Sweets asked hopefully. This was looking like a worse and worse idea by the second.

"No," said Sam, reaching into the trunk for something, "I saw a Rhododendron with the symbol carved at the base."

"Maybe we should just come back when it's dark."

"She's seen us now. If we wait that long the place will be swarming with the 'neighbourhood watch'. We have to take care of this now." Sam pulled a thick rope and a set of handcuffs out of the trunk.

Oh, Sweets _really_ didn't like where this was going.

"We can't tie her up!" he exclaimed.

"We don't really have a choice," Sam said, all business. "She's probably evil, if it helps."

Sweets looked at Sam. His eyes were not black. There were no throbbing veins in his neck. He looked relaxed. He had a shotgun in one hand, a large rope looped over his shoulder, and a pair of handcuffs in his other hand, and he looked relaxed. _Crap._ Sweets was in way over his head. And he was starting to think that the doubts Sam had about his own goodness were not entirely about the influence of the demon blood. _Come on, Sweets, you're a psychologist, think!_

"You know what we need? A distraction. We can get someone to distract her while we set fire to her garden."

"Who? Wasn't the idea of this to prove our worth to the team? I think Dean and Cas are a little busy right now. And it sounded like Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan were kind of... tied up. We have limited resources here... It's not like I enjoy tying people up... sometimes you have to do something not very nice for the greater good."

Sweets would have liked to point out where that train of thought had got Sam last time, but he didn't think it would be helpful.

"Sam," he said, "When does doing something for the greater good ever turn out well? Haven't you seen Hot Fuzz?"

Sam looked dejected. "I just want to help. I need to show Dean that I'm still on his side, and I can still help save the world without going darkside again. I'm just slowing him down and hurting him if he has to keep looking over his shoulder for me."

Sam leaned back against the car and Sweets let out a silent sigh of relief.

"We need to find a way to help without asking Dean for help and without tying her up," Sweets told him. "You'll only feel guilty about it later if we do it, and that will set your recovery back significantly." He wasn't actually sure that Sam would. Sam was difficult to read at times, and the heart-thumping fear Sweets felt every time Sam stood up to his full height didn't help.

"OK. A distraction. We're going to need at least two people to take out the spirit, though."

Sweets had an idea. He took out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.

* * *

 

"Well, Lancelot – What's so important you couldn't ask me over the phone?" Daisy asked, running over to where Sweets and Sam stood leaning against the Impala.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sweets saw Sam recoil slightly at Daisy's overpowering cheerfulness. Daisy had that effect on people sometimes. She would be an awesome distraction.

* * *

 


	22. Chapter 22

Brennan was handcuffed to a table in the chemistry lab of a school of Satan-worship run by demons. Under ordinary circumstances, being handcuffed to a table would be emotionally disturbing, but not a hopeless situation. However, these were not ordinary circumstances, because Booth was both unconscious and handcuffed to the next table (wrists and ankles). Brennan felt it was safe to assume that he wouldn't be saving her this time. And so, because desperate times call for desperate measures, Brennan was praying. Not to God, of course. It wasn't rational to pray to someone for whom there was not even circumstantial evidence, and if she lost her rationality now, she had nothing. But Castiel claimed to be an angel; he could teleport; and Booth was certain he was telling the truth. So Brennan was praying to Castiel, without much hope.

Booth woke up as she was praying, and looked over at her, smiling slightly. At first she was confused, because it seemed an inappropriate time to smile, but then she realised that this was not a happy smile, or a smile because Booth thought something was funny. Booth was smiling his approval because she was praying. And maybe there was something else in there too. Affection. Love? Brennan smiled back, because if she was going to die, it was sort of comforting that Booth was there, even if he couldn't do anything to stop it.

Ms Keppler was approaching the table where Brennan lay, and Brennan broke off her awkward prayer. She could only hope that Ms Keppler, or the demon inside her, was a talker, and death would be postponed until someone figured out where they were. Praying didn't seem to be working.

"Well, well, Temperance," the demon said, "aren't you the little hypocrite, praying when you need help and denying the existence of a higher power in the good times. We could use your type. People who see things in black and white and have complete conviction that they are always right. People who uphold a rigid set of morals to others, but are ready to turn their backs on those rules when it suits them..."

Brennan wanted to argue with that, say it wasn't true, but the demon was already talking again.

"I mean, you catch murderers for a living. You live to put those sons-of-bitches behind bars, because murder is _wrong_. And yet, your own father, a thief, a liar, and a murderer walks free because you conspired to convince the jury he was innocent even though you knew he was guilty!"

She had a point. But there was a difference between what her father had done, killing to protect his family, and what these people were doing. Creating a vengeful spirit to kill children in a ritual to raise the devil and take over the earth was inexcusable, and no matter how much they argued that Lucifer was misunderstood, it would never be acceptable.

Ms Keppler turned to Booth and spoke to him, as the men who had hauled them to the lab moved in to loom over Brennan.

"And you, Booth. Lucifer will value someone like you. So much death on your hands..."

"He was a soldier," Brennan protested. Booth seemed to be struggling for words.

"You think that excuses you, Booth? You were a soldier, and now you are sorry, so it's OK that you killed all those people? Well I've got news for you. All the penitence in the world couldn't save you from hell, and as for good intentions... they never helped anyone. Just look at Sam Winchester. All he wanted to do was look after his brother and get revenge on the demon that killed Dean, and now he's going to be the one that brings Lucifer to earth. He might as well just accept it and learn to like it, because Lucifer will reward him greatly. And you should too."

One of the men was leaning over Brennan. He was just a man. He didn't flinch when she said "Christo," and had merely blinked when she had flung holy water in his face. He was just a man, and yet he was willing to murder in cold blood on the order of a supernatural being from hell. There was a knife in his hand. It was silver, and double edged, ornately wrought with symbols Brennan didn't recognise. It was ceremonial, and sharp, and the point was at her throat.

Booth was yelling something, but Brennan couldn't understand him because the tip of the dagger was drawing blood, and she could feel it dripping down her throat to pool above her clavicle.

"Booth?" she said.

"Bones?" Booth said.

"I love you," she told him.

"I..." Booth began, but was interrupted.

The ceremonial dagger clattered to the floor as the man was ripped away from her. He let out a howl of pain, and followed his knife to the floor, landing hard and lying still. Castiel stood where the man had been, a sneaky half-smile on his face and a red-stained blade in his hand. Then he whirled away, anticipating an attack from behind and meeting Ms Keppler with his sword.

Brennan looked across to where Booth lay, still handcuffed to the table. His hand slowly formed a thumbs-up sign. Brennan made one back.

Behind Booth's table, Dean Winchester brought the back end of his gun into the head of the man standing guard over Booth, and the man collapsed, but a second guard was there immediately, slamming his fist hard into Dean's face. Brennan hoped it hadn't broken anything – Dean had nearly perfect bone structure, and it would be a shame for that to be ruined. He was a good fighter, too. Surprisingly good. Before now, he had seemed vulnerable. Broken. Like an old man and a little boy in need of protection, at once. But now he seemed alive again, and strong. Dean was a big man, Brennan realised. And he hadn't given up, not completely.

And then it was all over. The man Dean was fighting dropped to the floor, and Castiel came back into view.

"The demon is back in hell," Castiel informed them.

Despite the trembling of her body as the adrenalin left it, and the wetness of the tears on her face, Brennan felt a little disappointed to have missed it.

"You take her out of here and come back for us," Dean said to Castiel, "We'll barricade ourselves in here 'til you get back. There's no other way out past all those people." He bent over the handcuff on Booth's left wrist, fiddling with a piece of wire.

Castiel touched the metal loop on her wrist and it fell away.

"Show off," said Dean.

And then Castiel leaned close to her and placed two fingers on her forehead.

"Bend your knees," he said.

* * *

 


End file.
